


Devil's Acre

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Fear No Evil [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Country House, Established Relationship, Lineage & Legacies, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements, ghost story, period setting, underground passages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4969654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2784206/chapters/6248462">Deliver Us From Evil</a>, set a year on. Athos comes into an unexpected inheritance and unwillingly returns to his family seat, accompanied by Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan. But there are more dangerous things than unhappy memories waiting for him there, and all four are soon fighting what seems to be the very house itself for safety and sanity alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

D'Artagnan was hurrying across the quad, trying to wrap his scarf more securely to keep out the bitter evening wind when he recognised the tall figure in front of him and guessed they were probably heading in the same direction.

"Porthos! Hey!"

The wind snatched his words away, but Porthos turned and raised a hand in greeting when he saw who it was, waiting for d'Artagnan to catch him up.

It was mid-December, nearing the end of the autumn term - the final one of d'Artagnan's degree course but the first one of Porthos'. The shared experience of a series of terrifying events the previous Christmas had resulted in a firm friendship developing between them, and despite the fact they were in different years and reading different subjects, d'Artagnan had been pivotal in helping Porthos settle into what was for him a completely alien world. 

Coming from an exceedingly poor background to read law at the country's top university as a mature student of mixed race had made Porthos nervous beyond belief. That d'Artagnan had been on hand to show him the ropes, introduce him to his friends and get him regularly drunk had meant he'd got used to life here more quickly than he would have believed possible.

The other factor in his rapid acclimatisation, if a rather less public one, was his relationship with the man they were both on their way to see. Athos de la Fère, irascible professor of English and d'Artagnan's tutor, had also participated in the events of the previous year, and been Porthos' lover ever since.

Porthos and d'Artagnan fell easily into step, talking animatedly of how cold it was, and how they hoped Athos would have a decent fire going in his room. 

They were to be disappointed, Athos' window was dark as they passed, and d'Artagnan frowned. "It looks like he's not there. That's odd." They had a long-standing arrangement of pre-dinner drinks on a Friday, and Athos, who provided the drinks in question, had never missed it without good reason, or at least prior apology.

"He told me he'd be in," Porthos agreed. "Maybe he got held up in classes. It's alright, I've got a key, he won't might if we get the fire lit."

D'Artagnan looked amused. He was one of only two other people aware of the nature of Porthos and Athos' relationship, and whilst he'd once upon a time harboured certain feelings for Athos himself, he was very glad they were happy together.

Porthos was fiddling with the door and frowning.

"What's up?" d'Artagnan asked, and Porthos looked up in consternation. 

"It's not locked." He pushed the door open and walked into the darkened room with d'Artagnan close on his heels.

"I wish he'd get them to put electric light in here," d'Artagnan muttered, fiddling with the oil lamp on the sideboard.

"They offered it to me. I didn't want it," came a dry voice out of the gloom and d'Artagnan and Porthos both jumped violently and grabbed each other in fright, before letting go and clearing their throats with considerable embarrassment.

"Jesus!" D'Artagnan struck a match and glared at Athos, who was seated at the table. "What the hell are you sitting here in the dark for? Trying to scare the living daylights out of us?" The match burnt down and he shook it out with a yelp, finally managing to light the lamp with the second one.

"Sorry," Athos sighed. "I lost track of the time. It sort of got dark around me."

Now they could see, Porthos realised Athos looked tired and upset, and wondered what was wrong. There was a letter lying on the table in front of him, and he wondered if Athos had received bad news.

"Are you alright?" Porthos asked, coming over to him in concerned sympathy. "What's happened?"

In answer Athos pushed the letter towards him. It was an official looking missive, with a solicitor's heading. Porthos started to scan it, then looked up again curiously.

"Who's _Olivier_ de la Fère?"

"I am." Athos got to his feet and crossed to the tray of decanters on the sideboard, pouring himself a stiff drink. 

"You? But your name's Athos?" Porthos said, looking confused.

Athos sighed. "Olivier Armand d'Athos de la Fère," he reeled off, gesticulating wearily with his glass. "Disinherited son of the la Fère estate and all round disappointment to his father the Count de la Fère."

"Oh. Right." Porthos blinked, then smiled at him. "Well, I'm still just plain old Mister du Vallon, pleased to meet you."

At that Athos finally smiled back and relaxed a fraction, but d'Artagnan's next words made him tense up again.

"You told me your family were dead."

"I know what I _told_ you," Athos snapped. A moment later he relented and sighed. "In any case, it was mostly true. My parents died some years ago." He looked unhappily at the letter in Porthos' hands. "And now apparently so has my brother."

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" Porthos suggested softly. "It sounds like we've got a bit of catching up to do."

Athos looked at him, grateful that he wasn't complaining Athos had deliberately hidden things from them. He'd told Porthos a little, mostly just that his parents hadn't approved of his inclinations and that he hadn't spoken to them for years before they died, but certainly not the whole of it.

He sat back down, and Porthos poured drinks for himself and d'Artagnan while d'Artagnan pulled the curtains and lit more lamps. They joined Athos at the table, and Porthos reached out to take his hand. "Go on. You can tell us anything, you know that."

"I know," Athos sighed, giving them both a rueful smile. "Perhaps I should have told you before. But I thought it was all in the past." He took a swallow of scotch and a deep breath.

"My father threw me out when I was eighteen. I'd just finished school. He paid for me to go to university, on the understanding that I never came home again, and made no further claim on him or the estate."

"But why?" asked d'Artagnan, horrified.

Athos flushed. "He - found me in a compromising position with a male member of the estate staff," he confessed, with an awkward glance at Porthos.

"Trousers round your ankles kind of compromising?" Porthos asked, and Athos gave a sheepish nod. 

"Ouch." Porthos squeezed his hand and winked. "Male member eh?"

Athos gave an involuntary snort of laughter as he realised what he'd said, and Porthos grinned at him. 

"We've all been there. Well in my case it was jumping out of a window on the Old Kent Road and trying to outrun the filth while holding my trousers up, but yeah."

Athos stared at him, trying to work out if he was making this up or not. Porthos looked innocent. 

"Swear to God."

"Did they catch you?" d'Artagnan asked, wide-eyed.

"Nah. They caught the other guy though, poor bastard. Not my most successful relationship, all things considered," Porthos sighed.

"How long did it last?" d'Artagnan asked. Athos rolled his eyes, having guessed by now that Porthos was making the whole thing up in order to make him laugh.

"About twenty three minutes," Porthos said with a straight face. "Wouldn't have been so bad, except twenty of those were getting him to come upstairs in the first place."

D'Artagnan choked on his drink and Porthos leaned back in his chair grinning in satisfaction. 

"Have you quite finished?" Athos asked, although he appreciated Porthos' efforts to cheer him up more than he could say.

"That's what he said." Porthos suddenly remembered that Athos had just learnt of his brother's death, and sobered abruptly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be inappropriate."

Athos smiled at him. "Yes you did, and I love you for it," he said quietly. He took a moment to gather his thoughts and picked up where he'd left off, but there was a little more strength in his voice now as he outlined the bleak events.

"My mother tried to talk him out of it," Athos continued. "But in that, as in everything else, my father got his way. She passed away two years later. I only found out three months after the funeral. He hadn't even bothered to tell me she was dead." 

Athos paused to fetch himself another drink, and Porthos silently took hold of his hand again as soon as he sat down.

"My father died a few years after that," Athos continued quietly. "Everything went to my younger brother, Thomas."

"Should have gone to you," Porthos growled, indignant on his behalf, but Athos shook his head.

"He was welcome to it. I'd made my own life here by then." He stared into his glass. "I thought that part of my life was all in the past, that's why I never talked about it. I wanted to be a different person. And now - " Athos gave another deep sigh and flicked at the letter.

"Thomas worked for the Foreign Office. This says that he died six months ago, in India. Malaria, apparently." 

"I'm sorry," Porthos murmured, and Athos shrugged uncomfortably. 

"As far as I'm concerned he'd been dead to me for years." 

Porthos just looked at him levelly, and Athos groaned. "What did he want to go and do a stupid thing like this for?"

"What, dying?" asked d'Artagnan, confused.

"No." Athos pushed the letter at him. "He's left it to me."

"What?"

"Everything. The house, the estate. Everything. I didn't even know he knew where I was."

"He must have cared enough to find out," Porthos said, and Athos scowled.

"Not enough to come and see me."

D'Artagnan was reading the letter. "He wanted it to stay in the family?"

"My father was adamant that I'd never set foot there again." Athos drained his second glass and shook his head. "Maybe I won't. I should just sell it and be done with it."

"Is that what you want?" Porthos asked gently.

Athos looked miserable. "I don't know. I don't know anything any more. Why me? I thought the stupid bastard would have been married by now."

" _You're_ not. Maybe it runs in the family," d'Artagnan suggested with a smile, but Athos glowered at him.

"For his sake I hope it didn't."

Porthos patted his hand. "That bad, is it?" he teased, but this time Athos wasn't to be cheered up.

"He inherited," Athos said flatly. "If he was like me, that means he had to hide it from my father, live a lie his whole life. At least I escaped. For his sake, I hope he wasn't." He scraped his chair back and refilled his glass again, this time bringing the decanter over to the table for the others.

"What do I do?" Athos asked plaintively. "What would you do?"

Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged a glance.

"I'd go back," Porthos said, and d'Artagnan nodded agreement. "At least once. Maybe lay some demons to rest, eh?"

Athos raised an eyebrow, and managed a thin smile. "I've done enough of that for one lifetime already, thank you."

They laughed, and the tension eased a little. Athos slumped in his seat, and looked at them both. 

"If I did go back - would you come with me?" he asked tentatively. "No one would see us, the place has been shut up for years by the sounds of it, while Thomas was overseas. I guess his memories of the place were no fonder than mine."

"Of course we will," Porthos said immediately. 

"Definitely," d'Artagnan agreed. "When do we go?"

Athos pursed his lips. "Well we break for Christmas next week. Might as well go up then."

"Can't be a worse holiday than last year," d'Artagnan grinned. "Although we should maybe pack a bible just in case."

Athos gave a low laugh. "I think it'll be a different kind of ghost I need to lay to rest this time." He looked at d'Artagnan consideringly for a moment. "Would you like me to invite Aramis as well?" he asked carefully.

D'Artagnan's face clouded. "Do you think he'd come?"

"He might." Athos looked at Porthos, who winced. They'd both noticed that it hadn't been all smooth sailing lately for d'Artagnan and Aramis. On the face of it, the problem was that Aramis lived and worked in London and they hardly ever saw each other. In truth, Athos suspected the problem was, well, Aramis.

"Yes. Alright." D'Artagnan rubbed his face, and came to a decision. "Ask him. And - make it clear that I'll be there. If he doesn't come then I guess I know where I stand."

"I'm sorry," Athos murmured, and d'Artagnan held up a hand.

"Just don't say 'I told you so'."

"I wasn't going to," Athos said gently, feeling sorry for him. 

D'Artagnan sighed. "You did warn me what he was like. To be fair, so did he. I can't say I didn't go into it with my eyes wide open. I suppose - I just thought it'd be different, you know? That he'd have flings, and we'd laugh about it, and it'd be something we shared. I never thought he'd _care_ about them. I never thought I'd feel this jealous," he confessed, looking guilty and miserable. 

"Aramis has always fallen in love too easily," Athos told him kindly. "He doesn't mean to hurt anyone. He just doesn't understand that not everyone's wired the same way."

"I thought I was special," d'Artagnan said in a small voice, hating himself for confessing such intimate things in front of his friends, but having no one else he could discuss it with.

"I'm sure you are," Athos said comfortingly, just managing not to say _were_. "Like I say, he doesn't mean to be hurtful. Look, I'll tell him when we're going up, let's see what he says. Let's face it, one creepy old manor house deserves another, eh?" 

D'Artagnan raised a wan smile and nodded, getting to his feet. "Let me know the arrangements," he said. "I'll be there. And to hell with Aramis. I guess love affairs aren't that important, in the great scheme of things."

He said goodnight and slipped out of the door, leaving Athos and Porthos alone.

"He's wrong," said Porthos quietly, taking Athos by the hand and drawing him over to the settee. "In the end, love is the only thing that matters." 

\--

A week later the three friends found themselves standing at the end of a gravel path looking at the house that loomed up before them. They had travelled up by train that morning and commandeered the station's shooting brake to drive them up to the house along with their bags.

All of them were travelling reasonably light - Athos hadn’t been entirely sure what sort of condition they would find the house in or whether it would be habitable; if it turned out to be too bad they planned to decamp to the nearest hotel for the night instead. Aramis had announced his intention to drive up and meet them there, so with any luck they would have a car at their disposal for the duration of their stay.

The planning stage hadn't been too bad; concentrating on train times and packing had allowed Athos to avoid thinking too deeply about things. Now though, he was actually here, and he hesitated on the path to delay the inevitable.

"You alright?" Porthos murmured at his side. 

Athos stared up at the blank windows that seemed to stare back at them and sighed. "I never thought I'd come back here," he said. "Certainly not as the only one left."

"You might be the last of your family," d'Artagnan said. "But you're not alone."

Athos looked at them both and smiled a little sadly. "Thank you for doing this," he said quietly. 

Porthos slipped his hand into Athos' and squeezed it reassuringly as he stared up at the house. He hadn't known what to expect, wondering if it might be a stately pile on the scale of some of the college buildings, but it was a fairly modest country manor house, a little larger than the house Aramis' uncle had bequeathed to him the previous year.

Built of cold grey stone, it had two stubby wings that projected out towards them like pincers and a higgledy-piggledy assortment of rooflines. As his gaze swept over the frontage, something unexpected caught his eye and he cried out in surprise.

"What is it?" Athos turned to him looking startled.

"There's someone up there." 

"Where?" Athos looked back up at the house and Porthos frowned in consternation. 

"They've gone. There was a face at the window, I was sure of it. Second floor, window in the middle."

Athos looked where he was pointing. "That'd be the landing. I can't see anything?"

"Neither can I now," Porthos admitted, feeling a bit silly. "Is someone here to let us in maybe?"

"No. The solicitors sent me the key." Athos drew a bunch out of his pocket, one of which was twice the size of the others, made from ornate heavy iron. "We should be the only people here."

"So are we going in then?" d'Artagnan asked, starting to shiver as it began to spot with rain.

Athos shook himself and set his shoulders. "Yes. Come on." He strode up to the door determinedly, and tried the handle before fitting the key in the lock and turning it with some difficulty. 

"No one's been in this way for years I should think," he said as the door creaked open on loudly protesting hinges. "If anyone is in here they must have come in the back."

Entering through a stone-floored porch they found themselves in a hallway that stretched the depth of the house, tiled in a black and white chequerboard pattern. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust that lifted in clouds as they walked in.

Halfway down the hall a wooden staircase rose to the upper floors, turning about on itself at precise right angles.

"No one's been up there by the looks of the dust," d'Artagnan observed. "You can see mouse tracks in it, but no footsteps."

"Is there another way up?" Porthos asked, not yet quite willing to admit he'd been mistaken. It had looked very like a face behind the glass.

Athos nodded. "Couple of rear stairs, one from the scullery, one in the east wing. But I don't think anyone's here. It feels empty, don't you think?" 

They stood and listened intently, the silence of the old house folding oppressively around them as soon as they stopped moving. 

Suddenly a loud knocking echoed down the hall, and they all jumped. 

"Anyone home?" called a voice from the front door and everyone immediately relaxed again, feeling silly.

"Aramis! You scared the hell out of us," Athos declared, marching back up to the door to greet him.

"Sorry." Aramis grinned at him, looking around with interest as he gave Athos a warm hug of welcome. "Well. You kept this quiet."

Athos tensed, but Aramis only looked amused. "Thank you for coming," Athos murmured, and Aramis nodded.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." He held a hand out to Porthos and pulled him into a hug too. "Porthos. Good to see you my friend."

"You too." Porthos returned the hug with a smile. Aramis was funding him through university, and whilst Porthos had vowed to pay it all back as soon as he could, he was infinitely grateful for the generous nature that had lead Aramis to make the offer in the first place.

"D'Artagnan." Aramis smiled at him, opening his arms wide and going in for a full-body hug with no room for refusal. D'Artagnan submitted to it looking startled and a little uncomfortable. He'd been hanging back, nursing his grievances and preparing for an argument, but Aramis seemed oblivious to the stilted welcome he received.

"Do we get the tour then?" Aramis asked, wandering off down the passage without waiting to be invited. D'Artagnan gave a frustrated growl, and set off after him.

Porthos sighed. "Aramis doesn’t have a clue d'Artagnan's cross with him, does he?" 

"No."

"D'you think they'll sort it out?"

Athos shrugged. "I'm staying well out of it. You should too."

"Yeah. Point taken." Porthos looked sideways at him. "You'd tell me, right? If you were ever mad at me like that?"

Athos smiled. "When am I ever mad at you?" 

Porthos matched his smile, and leaned in to brush a kiss across his lips. 

Still half convinced he'd seen someone at the window, Porthos was more than willing to follow Athos up the winding stairs. To his surprise Athos didn't stop at the first floor but kept going up a narrower flight to the second, where the ceiling of the passage was pitched with the roof. 

Athos disappeared through a door to the right, and Porthos followed to find him standing in a long room with a sloping ceiling. It was empty but for the metal frames of two single beds, and what looked like a dressing table shrouded under a sheet. 

Athos looked round at Porthos, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. "This was my room," he explained softly. "Our room."

"You and Thomas?" Porthos asked, and he nodded. Typical of the upper classes, Porthos thought. Have a house big enough to shelter half the village, but make your sons share a room in the attic.

"Bit old to be sharing, weren't you?" he added, thinking that Athos had been eighteen when he left, although wasn't sure how much younger Thomas had been.

"Wasn't here much," Athos admitted. "I was at school most of the time."

"But - oh." Porthos realised what he meant, and wondered why it hadn't occurred to him before. Alien territory again, he supposed. "You mean boarding school."

Athos nodded. "Since I was seven."

Porthos shuddered. "Bit harsh."

Athos gave a thin, hard smile. "Good practice for being sent away, as it turned out." Porthos moved forward to hug him but Athos was pulling the dust sheet off the dressing table to see what was underneath.

"Oh!" He started back, and Porthos was at his side in an instant. 

"What is it?"

"Just a mouse." Athos looked embarrassed. "Sorry. Made me jump." He looked down at what he'd uncovered - a few faded books, a dish of cracked marbles and a moth-eaten looking teddy bear. 

Athos picked up the bear and turned it over with a frown as bits of stuffing fell out onto the floor. He held out the mouse-nibbled bear for Porthos to inspect, with a look of mournful indignance.

"Poor old Bruin's had his arse chewed off!"

Porthos grinned. "Guess d'Artagnan was right after all. It really does run in the family."

Athos' eyes widened as he took Porthos' meaning, then he spluttered with scandalised laughter and hit him with the bear in a puff of stuffing.

"Oi!" Porthos laughed, and hooked an arm around his neck. "Come on, let's get out of here and find the others. This dust is making me cough."

Outside on the landing Porthos bent to peer through the window, trying to get his bearings.

"This would be where you thought you saw someone," Athos confirmed, guessing his thoughts. He looked at the trails in the dirt underfoot, and shook his head. "There's only our footprints though."

"Must have been a trick of the light," Porthos sighed. He straightened up and looked wary. "The place isn't haunted, is it?"

Athos shook his head. "Scared the living daylights out of me as a child at times, but no I don't think so. I never saw anything, anyway." It seemed strange to be giving such a question serious consideration, but the events of last year had given them both a wary respect for the supernatural. 

"Good to know."

As they were about to descend, a vigorous knocking echoed throughout the house for a second time, and they looked at each other in surprise. A moment later voices floated up from the hall below, Aramis, and another man.

"Well I'm fairly sure that doesn't sound like a ghost," Porthos said, and they hurried down to the lower hall.

"Here he is." Aramis turned as they came towards the door and nodded to Athos. "Someone here to see you."

Athos stared at the grey-haired figure in the doorway, then gave him a startled smile. "Serge?"

"Master Olivier." The man, who'd been squinting at Athos in the gloom of the porch seemed rather more convinced by the sound of his voice than the sight of his beard. "I guess we've both changed a bit, huh."

"You haven't changed at all," Athos smiled. "Serge was my father's gamekeeper," he added for the benefit of those listening, and Serge nodded. 

"Yes, and your brother's too," he added, then seemed to remember something. "Oh! Ah, I've got summat for you here. Now, where did I - oh yes." He pulled an envelope out of his inner coat pocket and held it out towards Athos, who looked at it and froze.

"That's my brother's handwriting."

"That it is," Serge agreed. "Had this for years, I have. Told me if you ever came back here, I was to give it to you."

Athos was staring at the envelope without taking from him. "What does it say?"

"Well I'm sure I don't know!" Serge said indignantly, as if he was being accused of steaming it open. "He just asked me to see that you got it."

"How did you even know I was here?" Athos asked uncomfortably.

"Folks at the station," Serge said amiably, lowering his hand as Athos still made no move to take the letter. "Said you was back. Said they'd brought you up here." He nodded approvingly. "Good to see you back, it is."

Athos shook his head. "I'm not staying, I'm afraid. In fact I'm selling the place."

The others looked at him in surprise, this having been the first he'd mentioned of his decision. Serge looked shocked.

"But this is your home!"

"No. This hasn't been my home for a very long time." Athos sighed. "Serge - there is one thing you might be able to tell me. Jacques - is he still around here? What happened to him?"

Serge looked uncomfortable. "Jacques as was your father's groom?"

"Yes."

"Well now. I thought as you'd have heard."

Athos looked wary. "Heard what?"

"What happened to 'un."

Athos now looked like he was on the brink of shaking Serge until his false teeth rattled, but he swallowed down his impatience with a visible effort. "What. Happened. To him?"

Serge took his cap off, scratched his head, replaced it. "Well. Hanged hisself, didn't he?"

Athos went deathly pale. "What do you mean, he - when?"

Serge considered. "Month after you left, mabbe?"

"Oh - God." Athos took a physical step backwards. "I - I didn't - oh, God, excuse me." He clapped a hand to his mouth and ran off down the hall.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Serge looked contrite. "Old and daft, I am," he muttered. "Should have broken it a bit softer, really. Forgot as how they was always friends, like. Thought he'd have heard though."

"I'd better see if he's alright," Porthos muttered, and disappeared hurriedly in the direction Athos had taken.

"Shall I take that?" Aramis asked, gesturing to the letter Serge was still holding. "I'll see he opens it."

"Oh, yes, thank you." Serge handed it over looking relieved. "You boys staying here tonight then?" he asked curiously.

"We had planned to," d'Artagnan told him. "But it's a bit grim."

"Would have had it aired and cleaned up if he'd sent ahead to say he was coming," Serge muttered apologetically, then brightened. "Could get some food sent up here if that would help?"

Aramis beamed. "That would be amazing if you could, thank you."

\--

Porthos finally ran Athos to ground in the kitchen, leaning over the Belfast sink and wiping his mouth. He'd clearly just thrown up, and as Porthos came over he turned on the tap to rinse it away, swilling out his mouth at the same time.

"You okay?" Porthos asked quietly, rubbing his back.

Athos nodded, still leaning on the edge of the sink for support. "Sorry. It just came as such a shock. I didn't know."

"Jacques was - who you were found with?" Porthos guessed. Athos nodded heavily, finally turning to face him with a bleak expression. 

"I should have known about this. I should have cared enough to make sure he was okay," Athos said bitterly. "And I barely gave him a second thought."

Porthos shook his head. "You were eighteen and you'd just lost your home, your family. What happened to him wasn't your fault. _Isn't_ your fault."

"I didn't even know," Athos said in a small voice, and Porthos pulled him into his arms. 

"They didn't even tell you your mother was dead, I ain't exactly surprised they didn't tell you this."

For a while Athos clung to him, and Porthos held him tight, wondering if it had been a good idea to come here after all.

"I thought that maybe they'd just dock his pay - or that the worst that could happen was that he'd be dismissed," Athos muttered quietly. "I never imagined anything like this."

Porthos pulled back and looked at him in shock. "Wait - are you saying you think your father was involved in what happened to him?"

"What did you think, that he'd hung himself because he'd lost me?" Athos asked scathingly. "Trust me, it was no great love affair. And he was never the kind for grand gestures. No, if he did what he did it was because he was forced into it."

"Surely not," Porthos protested weakly.

"I don't think you understand," Athos said, quietly fierce. "My father walked in on him fucking me. Jacques was a year older than me, my father threatened to have had him arrested. I begged him not to, I thought by doing what he wanted, by leaving, then he'd leave Jacques alone. But now it seems he didn't. What did he threaten him with, disgrace to his family, jail?" Athos shook his head, tears in his eyes now.

"No, my father may not have actually strung him up, but if Jacques killed himself, trust me, my father's hand was in it somewhere."

"I'm sorry," said Porthos, feeling helpless at seeing such pain and anger in Athos' face. 

At that point Aramis and d'Artagnan came in, knocking cautiously on the door.

"Everything alright?" Aramis ventured. "Serge is going to have some food sent over for us," he added. "If we're staying here tonight?"

"We could leave, if you'd rather?" Porthos said to Athos. "Why don't we just go home again? There might even still be a train."

Athos shook his head, his anger hardening into resolve. "No. We're staying. Aramis, do you mind if Porthos and I take the master bedroom?"

"Er, no, of course not."

"Thank you. Come on, let's find some bedding, it's probably packed away somewhere."

Porthos caught his arm as Athos walked past. "Are you seriously saying you want to sleep in your father's bedroom?" he asked uncertainly.

Athos gave him a steely look. "Yes. And we're going to fuck in it."

"Good luck with that," Aramis murmured with a smirk, catching Porthos' eye as he hastily followed Athos out of the room. He turned to d'Artagnan and gave him an enquiring look. 

"And are we sharing a room too?" he asked politely.

D'Artagnan hesitated. There was something rather awkward about being cross with someone who had no idea you were angry, as if you were being unfair. "I suppose so," he said grudgingly, and Aramis beamed at him.

"Splendid." Aramis marched out before d'Artagnan could say anything else, and he sighed. He was starting to wonder if Aramis did realise something was up after all, and was just desperately trying to avoid having the conversation. He had, after all, checked to see if they were sharing, when it would have ordinarily been a reasonable assumption to make without asking. 

D'Artagnan reluctantly followed him out of the kitchen, tracing the sound of voices to the first floor landing, where Athos was handing out armfuls of bedding from the linen cupboard. It smelt a bit musty, and faintly of mothballs, but was perfectly clean and of very good quality. Blankets were produced from two large wooden chests in the hallway, and the two couples staggered off to their chosen rooms, heavily laden.

The master bedroom was at the front of the house, a deep room that was situated over the parlour below. Unlike the forlorn children's bedroom at the top of the house it still held all its furniture under dust sheets, including a big oak-framed bed.

Porthos prodded the mattress dubiously. "It'd better not have mice in."

"The mice are probably hoping it's not about to have a Porthos in," Athos remarked, flapping out a sheet and making up the bed with deft movements. "You're rather heavier than they are."

"If anything bites my arse in the night, I'm sleeping in the kitchen."

"Does that include me?" Athos threw a pillow at him, then a pillowcase that landed over his head. "Here, make yourself useful."

"You can bite anything you like," Porthos conceded. He was watching Athos closely, taking in the nervous energy and the false brightness. Athos was wound as tight as a spring he concluded, and it wouldn't take much to make him snap.

Once the bed was made up Athos insisted on fussing round the rest of the room, wiping away the dust from everything and fetching up their bags from the hall. Porthos sprawled on the bed and watched him hang up their clothes in the wardrobe, thinking with a sinking heart that it looked like Athos wanted to stay after all. He'd been hoping it would be a case of one night being enough for him.

Eventually Porthos got up and put his arms around Athos from behind, physically restraining him from doing anything else.

"Athos. Enough. You're making me tired just looking at you," he murmured. "Let's go and make a cup of tea, eh? Assuming Aramis remembered to bring any milk, anyway."

Athos turned in his arms and for a moment let Porthos hug him close, leaning in against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "This must be such a pain for you. I should have had the balls to come on my own."

Porthos tightened his embrace, hating the idea of Athos having to face this gloomy place full of memories alone. "Don't be daft," he muttered. "Where you go, I go, alright?"

For another few seconds Athos let himself draw comfort from Porthos' warm arms, then reluctantly pulled away. They descended the stairs together, heading for the kitchen where the murmur of voices suggested Aramis and d'Artagnan were already in residence. Then a woman's voice cut in too, and Athos froze.

"Oh no," he muttered, as Porthos looked at him in surprise. "What's _she_ doing here?"

"Who is it?" Porthos asked curiously. Athos looked irritated rather than upset, so he hoped that the unknown woman at least didn't mean more bad news.

"Catherine," said Athos darkly. Porthos smirked.

"An old flame?"

Athos almost smiled. "Not exactly. My father was keen for us to marry, yes. I had other ideas." The glimmer of a smile was back. "I thought she might turn her attentions on Thomas once I left, but it seems he left the country as a preferable alternative."

Porthos snorted. "Then I can't wait to meet her."

Athos lead the way into the kitchen, plastering a polite smile on his face. Porthos looked over his shoulder with a keen interest at the woman currently in conversation with Aramis. She was dressed conservatively but well, with a few discreet pieces of jewellery that looked antique. A handsome woman rather than a beautiful one, but striking enough, and her face lit up when she saw Athos.

"Olivier! How good to see you."

"Catherine." Athos nodded politely. "I, er, prefer to go by Athos these days, if you don't mind."

"Oh. Right. I see." Catherine nodded dutifully, frowning a little as if committing this fact carefully to memory. 

"I see you've met Aramis and d'Artagnan," Athos added. "This is my friend Porthos."

"Hello." Catherine looked him over with frank interest, but her smile didn't falter and Porthos smiled back.

"Pleased to meet you."

"Catherine has very kindly brought us over some food," Aramis volunteered. Behind him on the table were two loaded baskets and a selection of covered dishes that looked like enough to keep them going for days.

"Did you carry all this up here by yourself?" Athos asked in surprise.

"No silly, I drove over," Catherine told him, then gave him a challenging look. "I suppose you think it unladylike for a woman to drive?"

Athos shook his head. "Not at all. I'm impressed. I mean - I can't."

"Still got a head full of books I suppose," she teased. "You'll need to learn if you're going to be running the estate now."

"Oh." Athos looked awkward. "No, I think you've got the wrong idea. I'm not here to stay, Catherine. Just to look the place over, prior to selling."

Catherine's smile turned brittle. "But - I thought you'd come home," she said with a pleading note. "I _waited_ for you, Ol- Athos."

"I'm sorry," Athos said gently. "But my home isn't here any more. It hasn't been for a long time."

"Then - take me away with you?" Catherine blurted, the colour rising in her cheeks at saying such a thing in front of three strange men. "There's nothing here for me. Please."

Athos shook his head apologetically, taking her hands in his. "I'm sorry Catherine but I'm already - with someone," he said carefully. 

"You're married?" she asked. "She's not come with you though?"

"Not married, no," Athos admitted, and pretended he hadn't seen the spark of hope in her expression. "But - promised, to another. Someone I love very much."

Catherine pulled her hands out of his, looking mortified. "I'm sorry," she said in a choked voice. "I shouldn't have - forgive me for being so forward." Visibly forcing the emotion back behind a cold exterior, and for a second Porthos was reminded of Athos. "My apologies for the intrusion," Catherine continued, voice becoming more clipped and aristocratic by the second. "I hope you enjoy the food."

She marched quickly towards the door, and Athos winced.

"You could always just leave?" he called after her. She hesitated, looking back at him, and he spread his hands helplessly. "If you don't like it here. You're no more tied to this land than me, Catherine. A fresh start - it's not impossible."

"Rather easier for you, than me, I think," she pointed out sourly. "Or would you see me on the streets?" Before Athos could answer she'd swept out, and he sank into one of the kitchen chairs, groaning. In the distance, the front door slammed.

"Well." Aramis cleared his throat, embarrassed but also quite entertained by the scene. "Your father obviously didn't broadcast the _reason_ for your eviction. Do you think she really waited for you all this time?"

Athos gave him a sour look to match Catherine's. "Of course my father wasn't going to spread it around if he could help it. He wouldn't have wanted the shame of people knowing he'd raised a deviant for a son." He sighed. "And no, of course Catherine didn't wait for me. As far as she knew, I was never coming back. But her father was against her going away to university, even though she wanted to. Their family isn't especially well-off, although it's an old and noble one. In this district, Thomas and I were the only prospects she had for making a good marriage." Athos put his head in his hands. "It seems my whole life has been one of letting people down."

"You've never let us down," d'Artagnan pointed out. "You don't have to bear everyone else's troubles as well as your own you know."

"He's right." Porthos rubbed Athos' back comfortingly. "And as one deviant to another, can I say how grateful I am to your father for raising one?"

Athos glanced up at him and gave a hiccup of horrified laughter, covering his mouth with his hand. 

"Come on," Porthos said encouragingly. "Help us unpack this lot. She seems to have brought enough to last us for a week."

"Or Porthos for a couple of hours," Aramis put in, and ducked as Porthos aimed a good-natured swipe at him.

Athos watched them chase each other round the table with d'Artagnan cheering them on, and let himself relax a fraction. Their brand of cheerful chaos was a vivid antidote to the feelings of gloom threatening to overwhelm him, and he was unspeakably grateful they'd all come here with him to help him face up to his past. Maybe he could do this after all, he thought. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

\--

The old house was cold, and once you stopped moving it became decidedly unpleasant. They got the kitchen range going in the hope of having hot water by the morning, and laid a fire in the back parlour, being the smallest and cosiest of the downstairs rooms. The onset of rain meant darkness had fallen early, and they settled in for the evening with a good selection of the food Catherine had brought. 

Once they'd eaten they relaxed with a second pot of tea, having discovered that the one thing they lacked was anything alcoholic. Aramis was chastised for having forgotten to bring the promised bottle of port up with him, and slumped in his seat a little sulkily, embarrassed by the omission. Something crackled as he did so, and he fished in his pocket to see what it was, coming up with a crumpled envelope.

"Oh! Athos, here. I'd forgotten about this." Aramis offered him the letter, and Athos took it warily.

"I was hoping Serge had taken that away again," he admitted with a sigh.

"Would you like some privacy to read it?" Porthos asked, but Athos shook his head.

"I can't do this alone," he breathed. "I needed you all with me for a reason."

Porthos, sitting next to him on the couch patted his knee reassuringly, and Athos took a deep breath and broke open the envelope.

"My Dearest Olivier," Athos read out. "If you are reading this, then I am dead." He broke off and looked up, startled. "He always was the cheerful one."

"Wonder who he got that from?" Porthos grinned, and Athos slapped him on the arm with the back of his hand, finding his place in the letter and starting to read again.

"You have little enough reason to remember me fondly, but I beg you to indulge the last wishes of a dead man and hear me out." Athos rolled his eyes. "Never could get to the bloody point, either."

"Get on with it," Aramis called across from the other couch, and d'Artagnan shushed him.

Athos resumed. "Firstly, I owe you an apology. I said some cruel things to you when you left, and I can only plead ignorance and the folly of youth. At the time I believed the things that father said, and it was only in the years after you had gone that I came to realise how cruel and unbalanced a man he was. When he died I came to find you, but you had made a life for yourself away from here, and believe me when I say it would have been no kindness to bring you back again."

Athos broke off again, sounding choked. "Bloody idiot," he muttered. "Why didn't he - ?" 

Porthos shifted closer on the seat, comforting with his presence, and Athos flashed him a grateful look before continuing. 

"I don't know if you ever really wanted the estate, but I must confess immediately that I have done you no favours in bequeathing it to you. You see, I have come to believe that there is a sickness here. Not in the medical sense, but a malaise of the very land itself, something that pervades the stones of the house and infects everyone unfortunate enough to live here. It sucks the life and the joy from every heart, turning it against those it should cherish until it is black and cold and hard. I have made a pact with myself that I will never marry; I could not imagine ever bringing a bride here knowing what the consequences must surely be."

"I have tried to find some remedy for this malady, but to no effect. I have decided to look further afield, in those places where such things are taken more seriously than the English countryside. I pray I will be successful, if not, I am making you my heir, not because I wish you ill, but because I dare not inflict the house on any innocent party. Perhaps you will succeed where I have surely failed, but if not, may I give you one last piece of parting advice and urge you to - "

Athos let the paper fall into his lap, tailing off in blank disbelief.

"What?" Aramis prompted impatiently.

Athos looked at him, his voice distant and shocked as he finished the line of advice. "Burn the place to the ground."

They all looked at each other, exceedingly unsettled by the strange letter.

"Is it too late to go to a hotel after all?" d'Artagnan enquired, only half joking.

"I've got the car," Aramis offered, entirely ready to leave at the drop of a hat if he was serious. "It's only a two-seater, I'd have to take you one at a time. But it's do-able."

"Oh don't be ridiculous, you're not in any danger," Athos sighed. 

D'Artagnan looked at him uncomfortably. "You think he's wrong, then?" he ventured.

"Well of course he's wrong!" Athos declared irritably, flicking the letter with his hand. "This is nothing but a bunch of fairytales. The deluded fantasies of a man who clearly wasn’t willing to believe that our father was a man capable of such hard hearted cruelty without some kind of outside influence." 

"Something that I, sadly, have no such problems in believing." Athos got to his feet, and strode out of the door. 

\--


	3. Chapter 3

When Athos had gone, Porthos picked up the letter himself and scanned it. There was no more than Athos had read out, apart from a final line where Thomas asked again for Athos to forgive him for siding with their father, and he sighed. "I'd better check on him." 

Left alone, Aramis and d'Artagnan eyed each other a little uncomfortably. 

"We could have an early night?" Aramis ventured, although there was more hope than enthusiasm in his tone, and when d'Artagnan hesitated, he sighed and sat back.

"You're angry with me aren't you?"

"Oh, you've finally noticed?" d'Artagnan replied acidly, and Aramis winced.

"Am I to know what I've done wrong?"

D'Artagnan stared at him helplessly. "Nothing," he said finally in a dull tone. "You've done nothing more than we agreed you could do."

"That we could both do," Aramis pointed out, and d'Artagnan looked away.

"I know," he said softly. "But I find I don't want to. I don't want to be with anyone apart from you, Aramis."

There was an awkward silence, and d'Artagnan turned back to him pleadingly. "Can't we change our agreement? I only have another two terms, and then I can go where I like. I could come to London, we can be together Aramis." He lowered his gaze, heat tinting his cheeks. "I'd give you everything you wanted. You wouldn't need anyone else then."

It was Aramis' turn to look away, and d'Artagnan's heart fell into his stomach. 

"I like you, d'Artagnan," Aramis murmured. "I like you a lot. But I promised I would be honest with you, and I have never been good at monogamy. If you require me to be faithful - " he sighed. "I fear I am doomed to disappoint you."

D'Artagnan got to his feet, looking wounded and frosty. "Then maybe we're both doomed to be disappointed. I won't share you any longer Aramis, I can't. It hurts too much."

"What are you saying?" Aramis got up too, reaching for him, but d'Artagnan moved out of reach. "Come on, be reasonable. We can work this out."

"I don't think we can." D'Artagnan shook his head sadly. "Not without one of us changing. I've tried not to mind, but I can't do it any more Aramis. And you're right, you have been honest, and I'm grateful for that. It's no fairer to ask you to change than it is for me. I hope we can still be friends," he ended lamely, walking out of the room before Aramis could say any more.

D'Artagnan made his way sadly up the stairs, trying not to feel utterly crushed. He'd held out a vain hope that faced with his offer of commitment Aramis would happily consent to an exclusive relationship, but in the event Aramis hadn't so much as considered it. Had he really meant so little to him?

This break up had the potential to be hugely embarrassing and inconvenient, d'Artagnan realised. Aramis was Athos' oldest friend, and was paying Porthos' fees and living expenses. Both of them had far more reason to side with Aramis, not to mention the fact Athos had counselled him against getting involved with Aramis in the first place. By walking away from the relationship, he knew he could be losing a lot more than a lover.

He went into the room they'd been planning to share, and realised it would be impossible now. Came back out again and rooted in the linen closet for more bedding. There were plenty of empty rooms to choose from, although it would be a cold, lonely night he faced. Earlier they'd banked up fires in the two bedrooms to take the chill off, but all the other rooms up here were freezing. 

D'Artagnan settled on a room in the east wing, as far away from everybody else as he could get. He didn't want to bump into Aramis right now, and neither did he want to be within earshot of Athos and Porthos and risk being reminded of what he'd given up.

Downstairs Aramis cleared away the remains of supper and washed up, grumbling under his breath that everyone else had abandoned him to it, but glad for something to occupy his mind. He felt hurt and more than a little betrayed by d'Artagnan breaking off their relationship for reasons he had willingly agreed to in the first place. If he'd wanted to be monogamous he should have said so from the start, Aramis thought indignantly. At least then Aramis could have tried. Or at least kept quiet about the others, he admitted to himself with a slight pang of guilt. 

"Think you're so special," Aramis muttered, dropping down into an armchair and wishing he had something to drink. The trouble was, d'Artagnan _was_ special. He liked him a lot more than his wounded pride had allowed him to let on, but he also knew himself, and that what he'd admitted was only the truth. He got bored easily, and as much as he liked him, the thought of living with d'Artagnan and only ever sleeping with him for the rest of his life filled him with a kind of horror.

Aramis wondered if d'Artagnan had gone to bed, and if he was expected to find somewhere else to sleep tonight. Maybe he should stay down here he thought, at least it was warm.

His eyes fell on the letter that Porthos had left lying on the couch opposite and he leaned over to pick it up, reflecting that at least his life wasn't as screwed up as Athos' seemed to be. 

Reading it through, the words made him shiver and peer into the deep shadows of the room with an uneasy prickle of foreboding. What if Thomas had been onto something, he wondered. What if this rift with d’Artagnan was not of their making, but some influence of the house?

Aramis sighed. As much as he would like to pretend, he knew this was a problem they had brought with them and not one that could be fixed by setting fire to something, however appealing the idea. 

\--

Walking into their bedroom, Porthos expected to find Athos still upset and angry. Instead, as soon as he stepped through the door Athos launched himself at him, pinning Porthos up against the wall and kissing him hard.

Taken by surprise, Porthos automatically folded Athos into his arms and kissed him back. There was an urgency to Athos' passion that left Porthos breathless, and before long Athos had steered him over to the bed, pushing him down upon the quilt and climbing on after him. They were both down to shirtsleeves by now, and Athos tore at Porthos' buttons, sliding a hand inside as soon as the gap was big enough and drawing his nails down Porthos' chest.

Porthos rolled them both over with a grunt, trapping Athos beneath him and kissing him deeply, feeling Athos bucking up against him, hard and eager. There was something frantic about it, and for a second Porthos drew back.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he whispered. It had been a day of shocks for Athos and he wasn't entirely convinced Athos' head was in a good place. Wanting to have sex was one thing, wanting to be fucked in his father's old bedroom - in his bed, in fact, Porthos realised in all probability - was that healthy?

But Athos was pressing against him, tearing off both their clothes and covering his chest with biting kisses, and Porthos was finding it hard to think objectively. 

"I need this," Athos whispered against his lips. "I need you. I need you inside me."

Porthos gave a strangled moan, and quickly pulled off the rest of his clothes. He wasn't a hundred percent sure this was wise, but on the other hand they'd had precious little sex lately, and having Athos all naked and aroused and pushy in his arms was something he wasn't currently capable of turning down. 

After they'd first got together Athos had spent the following months visiting Porthos in London, during which time they had settled into the comforting knowledge that the first flush of obsessive lust and heightened emotion really had been the precursor to a deep and abiding love between them. Over the summer they'd spent an idyllic month in a house on the banks of the upper Thames, again with Aramis and d'Artagnan, and Porthos cherished the memory of those sun-kissed weeks as being the happiest of his life.

In September he'd started his law degree, and while there was a special joy to finally being permanently in the same town as Athos, things had also become a little more difficult. They loved each other no less, but despite the fact that technically there were only a few years between them, Athos was horribly conscious of the fact that he was a member of staff and Porthos was a student. The scandal should they be caught together would be over and above the shitstorm two men might ordinarily expect to face, and although Porthos had been more than willing to take the risk, Athos had not been. 

Consequently, whilst Porthos had been a frequent and welcome visitor to Athos' rooms he had rarely spent the night there, and occasions for intimacy between them had been few and far between. Porthos had tried not to let it bother him, understanding that Athos' feelings for him had not changed, but it did mean that having Athos suddenly begging to be fucked wasn't an opportunity to pass up.

The thought went through Porthos' mind that Athos had already once lost everything by being caught with another man, and it went a long way to explain his reticence. It gave him a new appreciation for where Athos was coming from, and for a second he hugged him tight.

"I love you," Porthos murmured.

"Show me," Athos demanded, his lips hot against Porthos' skin. "Take me. Fuck me." 

Porthos took a shaky breath, trying to control himself. Athos rarely swore, was forever chiding d'Artagnan for it, and to hear such words from him came as a distinct turn on. Athos had been swearing more than usual since they arrived in fact, Porthos realised. The place seemed to be stripping control from him, or maybe just taking him back to a time before he'd built up such careful layers of defence.

Whatever the answer, Porthos was more than ready to do as he asked. With Athos spread beneath him and keening impatiently, Porthos hastily slicked himself up and pushed into him with greedy force.

The breath went out of Athos with an approving groan and he wrapped arms and legs possessively around Porthos' body, desperately urging him deeper. Porthos responded instinctively, thrusting into him hard and fast, occasionally snatching gasping kisses as they rocked against each other.

Maybe this was what they both needed, Porthos thought. A release of the tension that had been building since Athos had first heard about his inheritance. If Athos wanted to screw here as one last fuck-you to his father, who was Porthos to stop him?

He redoubled his efforts, letting go the worry that he might hurt Athos and pounding into him for all he was worth, hips snapping upwards to meet Athos on the way down and making him gasp and groan and swear, encouraging Porthos to be increasingly brutal.

Porthos felt like he would burst, blood hammering in his ears, body humming with lust and adrenaline as he fucked Athos to a standstill. Athos was clinging to him, by stuttered word and gesture leaving Porthos in no doubt that this was what he wanted, needed, craved. 

Up to now their lovemaking had always been tender, or passionate; they'd never fucked this violently before. It was a revelation and Porthos was carried away on the wave of it, finally spilling into Athos' body with a roar of triumph.

Athos wasn't far behind him, finding his own release a moment later, but the word that fell from his lips as he did so made Porthos freeze.

_"Jacques."_

Panting, dishevelled, Athos met Porthos' startled eyes with a horrified gaze as he realised what he'd said.

Porthos climbed off him with a grunt, and Athos sat up, trying to muster his thoughts enough to produce a coherent sentence as he quickly wiped himself down.

"I'm sorry. Porthos, I'm sorry," he managed, reaching out to him miserably. Porthos was watching him, eyes hurt and wary. "I didn't - I wasn't thinking about him," Athos added, and Porthos snorted.

Athos hung his head. "It's not what you think, I swear to you," he whispered. "I honestly wasn't thinking of him like that. I just - I can't get him out of my head. Can't stop thinking about what happened, what he did, because of me. I'm sorry." Athos risked a look up. "Are you angry?"

Porthos took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I'm trying really hard not to be," he admitted. "I know you've got a lot going on right now." He held out his arm and Athos curled into his side, contrite and relieved.

"I love you," Athos whispered. "I've never loved anyone but you. I'm sorry, Porthos. It just slipped out."

Porthos squeezed him tightly for a second, and dropped a kiss onto his hair. "I love you too," he sighed. "And I'm sorry too."

"What for?" Athos looked up at him in surprise.

"For advising you to come here in the first place," Porthos said. "I think it was a mistake. Look, why don't we just go home again? Everyone'll be gone for the holidays by now. By tomorrow night we could be safely back in your bed."

Athos shook his head slowly. "No, I needed to come here," he concluded. "I needed to know what happened to Jacques, if nothing else." 

Porthos wasn't sure he was any better off for knowing, but kept his thoughts to himself. He was slightly worried now that Athos had wanted to feel punished, and that that had been behind his demand for such rough sex. He held him close, and kissed him softly on the cheek.

"Alright," Porthos conceded. "Whatever you want. Don't shut me out though, eh? If you're upset about Jacques, you can talk to me you know."

Athos gave him a hesitant look then nodded, settling down against him and resting his head on Porthos' shoulder. 

"I didn't have many friends my own age here," Athos said quietly after a moment's silence. "Thomas was four years younger, and my father didn't like me playing with the boys from the village. Too common, he said."

Porthos made a derisive noise. "He'd have loved me then."

Athos managed a brief smile. "Oh trust me, there is precisely nothing about our relationship he would have approved of," he said and Porthos grinned at him, leaning down to give him a peck on the lips. 

"Go on," he encouraged.

Athos sighed. "There isn't a lot more to tell. Jacques and I - we weren't in love. We were just curious, I suppose. I'd already done a certain amount of experimenting at school," he confessed and Porthos gave a short laugh.

"Yeah, I imagine shutting you up in a dormitory full of other randy boys wasn't the smartest move your father ever made."

The glimmer of a smile was back. "The only thing I was ever grateful for." Athos sobered again quickly, remembering how it had all ended. "Maybe Thomas was right about one thing," he sighed. "Maybe I should burn this place down."

Porthos frowned. "Give us fair warning if you make up your mind, eh?" He remembered how Athos had been when they first met, how ashamed of his desires, and felt a growing hatred towards the man who'd thrown a teenage boy out of his home because of them.

As they turned out the light and lay down to sleep, Porthos hoped that Athos wouldn't want to stay on too long here. The place felt crowded with the ghosts of his past, and they weren't the kind that could be exorcised with bell, book and candle. As far as Porthos was concerned, the sooner they got away from here the better.

\--

When Porthos woke the next morning, Athos was already gone from the bed. He rolled over into the empty expanse of sheet, finding it cool to the touch and wondering how early Athos had risen. He wished Athos had woken him up, wished too that he understood what was going on in Athos' head.

Porthos hoped Athos wasn't blaming himself for Jacques' death, but he could help a twinge of jealousy at the memory of Athos calling out his name at the height of passion. He swallowed it down, climbing out of bed and rubbing his face wearily. He'd meant what he said, he was trying to be understanding. But he wasn't sure that Athos becoming fixated on the boy's death was any better than Athos missing him as a lover.

He went to the bathroom, relieved to find that the water chugging and clanking up through the pipes was now at least warm to wash in. As the mirror slowly fogged over Porthos thought he caught a movement behind him and turned, thinking he'd forgotten to bolt the door, but he was alone in the room. He shivered. The atmosphere in the house as a whole was not a pleasant one, and he could quite see why Thomas might have gone a little nuts, especially if he'd been living here by himself for any length of time.

Downstairs he found Aramis in the kitchen looking gloomy.

"Bad night?" Porthos asked, inspecting the inside of the teapot and pouring himself a cup. 

"Lonely night," Aramis admitted, and spread his hands sheepishly when Porthos looked enquiring. "D'Artagnan and I have - parted ways."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Porthos said awkwardly. "What happened?" Not really wanting to know the details, but seeing that Aramis wanted to talk.

"He wants to be my one and only," Aramis muttered, pushing his cup across the table for Porthos to refill it.

"And you broke it off because of that?" Porthos asked in surprise. Aramis glared at him.

"No! He broke it off with me if you must know. He said he can't stand sharing me any longer. It's all or nothing."

"Couldn't you try?" Porthos ventured. "I thought you liked him."

Aramis looked mutinous, then sighed. "I do. But then as Athos is overly fond of reminding me, I also have an appalling track record. I'd only end up hurting him."

"Well if you've conceded defeat before you start, yeah, you probably will," Porthos pointed out, and Aramis looked up crossly.

"What would you know about it?" he snapped. "Have you and Athos ever even had so much as an argument?"

Porthos looked uncomfortable, and Aramis hesitated. "Is everything alright?" he asked in a softer tone.

Porthos shrugged. "It's just this place. It gives me the willies. I don't think we should have come here. Athos is - so distracted. He keeps on about Jacques. It happened over fifteen years ago for God's sake!"

"And he's only just found out," Aramis reminded him. 

"He never even told me about him," Porthos said sulkily. "I mean, he never told me about any of this. We've been together - " he broke off in surprise. "Christ. It's almost exactly a year, isn't it?"

Aramis raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Next week, it'll be a year since we met you, so yes. And since I met d'Artagnan, in fact." He leaned back, warming his fingers around his teacup. "Look on the bright side, this holiday can only be better than that one. At least nobody's in danger of dying here."

Porthos sighed. "People keep dying here, I thought that was the problem." He frowned. "Where is Athos, anyway? I've not seen him since I got up."

Aramis hesitated. "Ah. Er, I believe he said he was going down to look at the stables. To check out the condition, I presume," he added quickly, seeing the expression on Porthos' face. "If he's going to sell the place, I mean."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure." Porthos muttered through gritted teeth.

"Why don't you go and find him?" Aramis suggested.

Porthos got up, but only went to refill the kettle and bang it down on the range before he replied, with a certain amount of bitterness. "Because they say three's a crowd."

\--

By lunchtime there had still been no sign of Athos, or of d'Artagnan for that matter, and Aramis and Porthos reconvened in the back parlour to share a muted meal. Things looked up slightly when Aramis produced a bottle of wine with a flourish, and Porthos stared at him in delight.

"Where did you get that? I thought we didn't have any?"

"Well, I got to thinking, there was bound to be a wine cellar," Aramis told him, pleased with his reaction. "Turns out I was right. Don't know why Athos didn't mention it last night."

"Guess he didn't think they'd have left anything behind." Porthos peered at the bottle dubiously. The label was faded and incomprehensibly French, but when Aramis pulled out the cork and filled two glasses, it smelt rich and tempting. 

The wine was dark red and had a heady smell that gave Porthos a buzz just from inhaling it. "We're not drinking his inheritance are we?" he checked, taking a mouthful and savouring the taste. "I can't remember ever having wine that tasted this expensive before."

Aramis laughed, coming to sit next to him on the couch and taking a sip. "There was a whole rack of it down there. I doubt he'd begrudge us."

Porthos swallowed another mouthful, thinking that Aramis was probably right, Athos had always been generous to a fault with his drinks tray. D'Artagnan was forever taking advantage of that fact, and he frowned.

"Where is the little bastard?"

"Who, Athos?" 

"No, d'Artagnan. He's not _left_ , left, has he?"

"I don't think so." Aramis looked surprised, as if the idea hadn't occurred to him. "He moved out of our room last night, but I doubt he'd have walked to the station with his luggage, it was miles. And there's no telephone. He's probably with Athos."

Porthos stirred uneasily at a prickling of guilt. It should have been him at Athos' side, comforting and supporting him. Instead he'd spent most of the morning in a mutual complaining session with Aramis about their respective lovers. It had been therapeutic to a certain degree, but had ultimately left him feeling unsettled and a little resentful.

He drank more wine, and the feeling ebbed slightly. To his surprise the first glass was already empty and he refilled it, topping up Aramis' at the same time. Porthos found he was glad they'd eaten first, because it was going straight to his head. It was like cobwebs were gathering over his brain, and he yawned, sitting up and trying to clear his thoughts.

"I should go down there," he slurred. 

"Down where?" Aramis rolled his head to the side on the back of the couch, looked at him through heavy lidded eyes. Somehow the second glass was empty as well, and Porthos picked up the bottle again.

"The stable. Drag him back up here. Just tell him we're leaving. Be a man about it." Porthos drank deeply, and some of the pain in his heart eased a little. "Remind him he'd be better looking to what he's got now, not what he's lost."

"Athos'll come round in his own time," Aramis murmured. "He's never been comfortable examining his feelings."

Porthos looked at him and then frowned. "Ugh."

"What?"

"I'd forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" Aramis persisted.

"That you'd slept with him as well."

Aramis waved his glass in vague apology. "It was a long time ago."

"Is there anyone you haven't slept with?" Porthos demanded, although there was no anger in it. Rather, the wine was sending a rush of warmth through him, relaxing and stimulating in equal measure. 

Aramis smiled slowly. "I haven't slept with you."

They looked at each other, the words hanging in the air between them, assuming a greater weight as each second passed.

Porthos blinked, trying to clear his head as Aramis leaned in towards him. There was a very good reason this shouldn't be happening, he knew that. He just - couldn't quite remember what it was.

 _Everybody else gets to behave badly,_ said a voice in the back of his head. _Why shouldn't you?_

Aramis' mouth was warm, and tasted thickly of the wine they'd drunk. Porthos slid a hand to the back of his head and drew him in, deepening the kiss with a sudden spike of resolve.

It was perhaps five seconds after this that the door opened, and Athos and d'Artagnan walked in.

Taking in the sight before them, d'Artagnan turned on his heel and marched straight out again with a noise of disgust, but for a long moment Athos remained where he was, frozen in place and staring at Porthos with a look of betrayal and disbelief.

Porthos had jerked back from Aramis as suddenly as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over him. The fog lifted from his thoughts just as abruptly and he blinked up at Athos in dawning horror as he realised what he'd done.

"Athos - " He reached out towards him, but either the movement or the sound seemed to break Athos' paralysis and he plunged back out of the door without a word.

Porthos turned on Aramis, ready to be furious, but was met with the same look of bewilderment that he suspected was on his own face.

"What the hell were we thinking?" Porthos croaked.

Aramis shook his head. "We were - I don't know. I don't know what came over me." He looked towards the door. "But I do know we need to find Athos, and quickly."

They hurried out into the deserted passage, looking round for a clue as to which way he might have gone. Distant footsteps were audible running up the stairs, and they were about to go that way when a door slammed from the direction of the kitchen, as if someone had left the house.

"He's probably heading for the stables," Porthos realised with a sick sense of inevitability.

Aramis nodded. "You go that way. I'll check upstairs."

They split up, Porthos dashing through the kitchen and out into the grounds. The path leading down towards the stable block wound around to the side of the house, but Porthos caught a glimpse of someone ahead of him, moving deeper into the gardens. 

"Athos!" He shouted. "Athos, wait."

There was no response, so he ran down the steps onto the gravel path, haring towards the point he'd seen them disappear. The rain was starting to come down in a thick drizzle, and visibility was poor. As Porthos burst through a gap in the hedge he caught another glimpse of the hurrying figure, way out in front. He couldn't see clearly but it seemed to be a man in a long black coat, which meant it was almost certainly Athos.

He groaned and started running again, head down against the soaking rain and wishing he'd paused for long enough to pick up his own coat. 

The formal garden was laid out in a series of 'rooms', each bounded by a hedge or a wall or some sort of trellis. They'd received no attention for years and were woefully over-grown. Porthos struggled through tangles of bramble and briar rose, swearing as thorns snatched at his clothes and face, wondering how the hell Athos seemed to be slipping through them with no issues.

He could still see him up ahead, always the same distance away, although he didn't seem to be running.

Porthos forged on, determined to catch up with him. If he could only get Athos to stop, to listen, then - well, he wasn't sure what he was going to say, but he'd fall on his face and kiss Athos' feet in the mud if that was what it took. 

Finally the gardens ran out, and pushing through an old wooden gate, slippery with mildew, Porthos found himself on a beaten earth path that was turning rapidly to mud. He paused, wondering where the hell Athos was going. 

"Athos!" He called out again, but the distant figure vanished round a bend in the track.

Gritting his teeth, Porthos kept going. He'd come too far to turn back now, and was already soaked in any case. To his surprise, around the far bend the track came to a sudden end at a stile that lead into a wet looking meadow. He climbed over, pausing at the top to peer out across the field in search of his quarry. 

Still the same distance away, which was ridiculous given how fast Porthos had been running, he caught sight of a dark shape moving through the rain. He wasn't sure if it was just the rain in his face, but somehow now it looked more like a long black cape than a coat and Porthos wondered for the first time if it actually was Athos he was chasing after all.

Disheartened, he thought of turning back, until he realised that whoever it was had finally stopped moving. With the wet grass slipping under his shoes he pressed on across the field.

As the rain cleared for a moment he thought with a shock that a group of people were waiting for him out there in the murk, but as he got closer he realised it was just a huddled group of old stones. The figure in black was standing there, silent and motionless, and as Porthos drew nearer he saw with a sinking heart that it was indeed an old fashioned hooded cape, not a coat at all, and certainly not Athos. 

"Hey! Who's there?" Porthos called out, breathlessly irritable that he'd run all this way for nothing. "What were you doing in the house?"

As he came level, the figure turned, and Porthos stumbled to a halt in shock. Inside the hood - was nothing. No face, no mask, just an empty blackness that nonetheless seemed to be watching him.

"What the - " Porthos took an instinctive step backwards, just as the formless thing lunged at him. He ducked back with a cry of alarm and his feet went out from under him on the wet grass. 

Arms windmilling frantically in an attempt to save himself to no avail, Porthos fell hard. His head made contact with the old grey stone, and with a dizzying surge the blackness inside the hood reached out to envelop him.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis ran up the stairs to the first floor, swinging round onto the landing and coming face to face with d'Artagnan.

"Oh." Aramis pulled up short, having expected Athos, but d'Artagnan misread his expression and scowled.

"Just a constant disappointment seeing me, isn't it?"

"No - look, let me explain," Aramis started, but d'Artagnan held up a hand.

"I don't want to hear it. Frankly, what I just saw - well that was just the proving of a point for me, wasn't it. But if it turns out you've broken what Athos and Porthos had going between them?" D'Artagnan gave him a hard look. "I will never fucking speak to you again Aramis."

There was a creak of floorboards overhead and Aramis looked up, then back at d'Artagnan, who flapped a cross hand at him. "Go."

Wanting to stay and try and explain, Aramis knew his first duty in this was to Porthos. He had to find Athos, had to make it right somehow, so he turned back to the stairs and climbed up to the second floor.

He hadn't been up here before, and ventured cautiously down the narrow hall to look into the first doorway. It opened onto a long room with windows at each end that held little more than two rusting bed frames. Halfway down, sitting slumped in the dust with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up, was Athos.

Aramis walked slowly over to him. There was a tattered old teddy bear in Athos' lap, that he was pushing clumps of stuffing back into, and they made such a melancholy picture that Aramis' heart ached in his chest.

"Athos. I'm sorry."

Athos glanced up at him, then away again.

"Go away," he said. "I really don't want to talk to you right now."

Aramis had been braced for tears, or anger, but this bleak blankness was somehow worse. He ignored Athos' instruction and slid down the wall to sit next to him.

"Nice old bear," he said mildly. "What's his name?"

Athos turned on him with ice in his eyes. "What do you _want_ , Aramis?"

"To say that I'm sorry," Aramis told him, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "It shouldn't have happened. I don't know what came over us. We weren't thinking straight. We didn't mean - I swear to you Athos, there's nothing going on. It was a mad moment, that's all. Forgive me."

"You're forgiven," Athos said tonelessly. "Now will you go away?"

Aramis hesitated, looking at his profile as Athos stared resolutely at the opposite wall. "That easily?" 

Athos gave a tired sigh. "I've known you a long time, Aramis. I know what you're like. Frankly, I don't expect any better from you."

The brutal summation of his character was painful in the extreme, but Aramis was more worried by what Athos wasn't saying.

"And Porthos?" he ventured.

Athos flinched, and looked down at the bear in his lap. "Porthos - " His voice almost cracked on the name. "Porthos I can't forgive so easily," Athos admitted.

"Athos - no. He loves you."

"Does he?" Athos stared at him, and the hurt in his eyes was sharper than any number of cutting words. "He's got a funny way of showing it."

"It was my fault," Aramis confessed desperately. " _I_ kissed _him_."

"He didn't look like he was fighting you off," Athos said dully.

"It was the wine. We were drunk," Aramis persisted, but Athos just looked at him incredulously.

"What wine? Last night we didn't have any in the house. And forgive me for saying so Aramis, but you don't exactly seem drunk."

It was true, with the arrival of Athos and d'Artagnan all sense of inebriation had left him, and Aramis was left trying to justify something that sounded false even to him. 

"I found it in the cellar. We only had one bottle, but - I suppose it must have been stronger than we thought. Seriously, a couple of glasses was enough to - well." Aramis faltered, conscious that Athos was staring at him with an odd expression. "What?"

"Say that again?" Athos frowned. "Where did it come from?"

"The cellar. The door in the hall?" 

Athos studied his face in bemusement for a second. "Aramis - there is no cellar."

It was Aramis' turn to look confused. "Well - of course there is. I've been in it. There was a big rack of bottles down there. I didn't think you'd mind if I took one?"

Athos shook his head, still frowning. "Aramis, I grew up here. I promise you there's no cellar. And no wine either, come to that - my father was a member of the Temperance movement, he'd taken the pledge - he wouldn't have it in the house."

Aramis shrugged. "Well maybe your brother restocked."

"What, and dug out a wine cellar while he was at it?" Athos asked sarcastically.

"Look, I'll show you." Aramis got up and brushed himself down, before holding out a hand to Athos. "Come on."

"Leave me alone," Athos protested, abruptly remembering his grievance with a sick feeling of misery.

"What, leave you to sit up here and mope? No. Come on, get up."

Reluctantly Athos gave Aramis his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. They looked at each other warily. 

"I'm sorry Athos," Aramis said again, quietly. "I never meant - "

"Don't." Athos held up a hand. "Just show me this sodding cellar of yours."

Aramis lead the way downstairs and marched confidently up the hall, only to falter as he was confronted with a blank expanse of oak panelling. 

Athos leaned against the opposite wall and folded his arms, looking sceptical. "Well?"

"It was - " Aramis looked along the passage. "It was right here. No, wait, maybe - " he ran up and down the length of the house, looking increasingly confused. He tried all the doors that opened variously onto the kitchen, the back parlour, the front drawing room, and the passages to the library in the west wing and the dining room in the east, to no avail. Finally he came to a stop back where he started in front of Athos, and admitted defeat.

"It was right here," he said lamely. "I didn't imagine it." 

"So - a vanishing cellar, and a vanishing level of drunkenness?" Athos asked scathingly. 

"I'm not making it up!" Aramis shot back, stung. "Is that what you think? It'd be a pretty bloody stupid story to invent, don't you think? One so easily disproved?"

"Given that most of your behaviour today could arguably fall into the category of pretty bloody stupid, it's hard to tell."

Aramis hissed in frustration, then had a thought. "The wine. You saw the bottle, right?"

"Oddly, my attention was on other things than the contents of the table," Athos said waspishly. 

"Well the bottle will still be there. Come on." Aramis hustled him into the parlour impatiently. 

Athos let himself be borne along with a resigned sigh. All he wanted to do was hide in the furthest dark corner of the house and nurse his hurts, but Aramis had had years of practice at bullying him out of his sulks, and Athos knew from experience it was easier just to give in.

There was indeed a bottle sitting on the table and Athos picked it up dubiously. "You were _drinking_ this?"

Aramis had a moment of anxiety that Porthos had been right, and they'd inadvertently drunk something worth hundreds of pounds. "It was only the one. I didn't think you'd mind?"

"Well - no. You must have been desperate though?" Athos sniffed the neck and recoiled, holding the bottle out to him. Aramis took it and stared. The glass was clogged with thick dust, and the label was faded and peeling. A filthy looking crust had formed where the wine had dribbled down the side, and the smell coming out of it was sour and revolting. 

"Christ," Aramis managed. "It wasn't like this. It must be a different bottle?"

Something moved, and Aramis dropped the bottle back onto the table with a shout of alarm. A huge centipede was crawling out of the neck. It slithered down the side and dropped off the table into the shadows.

Athos gingerly sniffed the dregs in one of the glasses and shook his head. "It's the same."

Aramis clapped a hand over his mouth and turned away, trying not to retch. "Oh God. We've been poisoned." The implication of what he'd just said sank in, and he span round to look at Athos with a look of shocked hope. "Athos. The wine - the cellar - all of it. We've seen this sort of thing before, right?" 

Athos looked at him. "You're saying you think Thomas was right?" he asked eventually. "That there's - what. Something here? In the house?"

"Messing with our heads," Aramis agreed. "What did the letter say? Something about sucking the joy out of every heart?"

"Well it's certainly managed that," Athos muttered, wrapping his arms around himself as if suddenly cold.

Aramis frowned. "But - this explains why, doesn't it? We weren't thinking straight Athos. Come on," he pleaded. "Do you really think I'd cheat on my best friend with his lover?"

Athos stared at him for a long moment. "No," he conceded begrudgingly. "No, maybe even you wouldn't go that far."

Aramis gave a sudden dry laugh. "Do you know what's funny in all of this?"

"What?" Athos asked stonily. 

"That I've just realised. In all my life, I think the only person I've ever been completely faithful to was you."

Athos stared at him, then shrugged. "Was that because you bore me an undying devotion, or because you were a skinny undergraduate who hadn't had any other offers yet?" 

Aramis cleared his throat and changed the subject. "So you'll forgive Porthos?" he asked hopefully. 

Athos was silent for a moment. "Just because you have an excuse doesn't mean it didn't happen," he said finally. "It doesn't change what you did, or what I saw. How I feel. And where even is Porthos? He clearly didn't care enough to bother coming after me himself."

"No! Athos that's not true, we were both looking for you," Aramis said hurriedly. "We didn't know where you'd gone. I tried upstairs, Porthos thought you'd gone outside."

Athos looked up at where the rain was beating on the window, and frowned. "He went out in this?"

"He was frantic," Aramis said softly. "Athos - don't throw away what you and Porthos have because of a stupid mistake. Please."

"I trusted him," Athos said quietly. "I can't just pretend it didn't happen." He looked out at the pouring rain, and sighed. "But I suppose I can't leave him out there to get drenched either," he admitted. He went to fetch his coat, wishing that he'd stayed outside in the first place and never come in at all. He'd lost one world the first time he left here, now he was wondering if he'd lose another.

With a rueful eye to the rain, Aramis groaned and followed him. They found d'Artagnan in the kitchen, who looked at them both curiously, sensing their prickly truce.

"Have you seen Porthos?" Aramis asked. 

D'Artagnan shook his head. "No. I don't think he's upstairs. Are you saying he's out there?"

"Looking for me, apparently." Athos sighed. "You don't have to come." He walked out into the rain, and Aramis and d'Artagnan both followed him. 

"He thought you'd head for the stables," Aramis called. "Maybe he's sheltering in there?"

Athos gave him a suddenly cold look, and Aramis wondered what he'd said wrong. 

"Of course he did," Athos said bitterly. He strode off ahead of them, ignoring the rain running down his face and trickling unpleasantly under his collar. 

A quick search of the stables made it clear Porthos wasn't there, and they retraced their steps more slowly. Athos looked down through the rain-sodden garden and frowned. "Would he have gone that way?" 

"Maybe he's got lost?" d’Artagnan suggested. Athos shook his head.

"The grounds aren't that big." He wandered off down the path, and after a moment's hesitation the others followed him.

A trail marked by torn creepers and crushed brambles soon suggested that someone at least had come this way recently, and they followed the path straight on though courtyards and arbours until they came to the garden boundary. 

"Surely he wouldn't have come this far?" Aramis asked, starting to shiver. The rain had eased a little, but only from torrential downpour to persistent soaking drizzle.

"Look." D'Artagnan leaned over the gate and pointed. Footprints were clearly visible in the mud of the path beyond.

"I guess he did," Aramis frowned. "There's only one set of tracks though. Where did he think he was going?"

They followed the footprints down the path and over the stile into the field, looking around them in confusion.

"Where are we?" Aramis asked, not seeing any obvious path to follow.

"They call this Devil's Acre," Athos said.

Aramis looked startled. "What, was Buttercup Meadow considered too depressing?"

Athos almost smiled, then remembered he was currently pissed off with Aramis and his face fell again. 

"It's named for the stones."

"What stones?" d'Artagnan asked, looking around.

"There's a group of them," Athos told him. "Not a stone circle or anything that fancy. Probably the remains of a collapsed chambered tomb or something. Used to give me the creeps as a child, I hated coming up here. Always felt like they were whispering about me," he muttered, to himself more than the others.

"I don't see any stones," d'Artagnan said, peering through the murk.

"They sort of creep up on you." Athos almost smiled again as d'Artagnan immediately turned to look behind him. "Not like that. I just mean - you can be looking and looking and not see them, and then suddenly they're just - there. And you wonder how you could ever have missed them." 

Athos shivered. "Crops never did well in this field. The soil must be thin. They left it for the horses in the end, but even they never went near the stones much."

"I see them!" D'Artagnan had been anticipating a row of them to rise against the skyline as they crossed the field, but he suddenly realised they were below the line of the hill, huddled against the grass, and a lot closer than he'd expected. As he looked he also saw something else, and stopped in his tracks. "Athos!"

Athos looked where he was pointing, and saw for himself the splash of red at the base of the stones.

"No. Oh, no, no, no," he moaned, and started running frantically across the field, the others slipping and sliding after him on the wet grass.

Athos fell to his knees on the grass, reaching out to the still shape slumped at the foot of the stones. Porthos' red wool sweater was soaked and heavy with rain, and his skin was cold to the touch. Athos experienced a second of heart-stopping horror until he saw that Porthos was still breathing, and simply chilled to the bone. 

There was a line of blood at his temple and Athos bent over him, keening quietly in shock. "No, no, what have you done, Porthos, please, wake up." 

Aramis arrived, panting, at his side, and laid a warning hand on Athos' shoulder. "Careful. I wouldn't move him."

Athos took Porthos' hand instead, chafing his cold fingers and quietly pleading with him. To everyone's relief after a moment Porthos seemed to respond to his voice and his eyes flickered open, dazed and confused.

The first thing he saw was Athos leaning over him looking pale and frightened, gripping his hand fiercely. 

"Athos?" he mumbled thickly, trying to blink the blurriness out of his vision.

"Let me see," Aramis said gently, moving Athos aside and bending to examine Porthos' head wound. After a certain amount of gentle prodding, he straightened up and nodded. "You'll live. Just knocked yourself silly I think. What happened?"

Porthos frowned, trying to line up his thoughts. "There was this thing," he said slowly. "It came at me. I must have slipped."

"What thing? No, never mind, let's get you back inside first, then you can tell us all about it," Aramis said briskly. "Can you stand?"

After a couple of attempts Porthos managed to get to his feet, supported on either side by Aramis and d'Artagnan. Athos was standing apart, his head bowed and avoiding everyone's gaze. Porthos' heart sank. The events that had lead to him being in this field in the first place were all too stark in his memory, and it looked like Athos hadn't forgiven him. 

Athos followed them wordlessly back to the house, a couple of paces behind so Porthos couldn't attempt to start a conversation. Porthos tried to catch his eye a couple of times, but Athos wasn't to be drawn, and Porthos accepted his silent rebuke sadly. It wasn't until they reached the shelter of the kitchen that he realised the coat that had been draped protectively over his shoulders belonged to Athos.

Seeing that everybody else was incapable or unwilling, Aramis assumed command of the situation with a surgeon's practicality. 

"Athos, go and fetch some dry towels and blankets. D'Artagnan, would make us some cocoa? I think we could all do with something hot. Porthos, come with me, let me look at that cut properly."

Everyone dispersed without objection, glad in a way to be told what to do next. It let everybody postpone thinking about the bigger questions, for a start.

Aramis cleaned and examined the wound on Porthos' temple, and was satisfied he'd done no lasting damage to himself. "Probably just a concussion," he declared. "How do you feel? Headachy? Nauseous?"

Porthos swallowed. "Bit, yeah."

"You'll be okay. Try and rest for as long as you can. And you probably shouldn't be alone tonight." This was more than half directed at Athos, who'd come in with a pile of towels, a change of clothes for Porthos, and a blanket from the bed. He'd taken the opportunity to change into dry clothes himself, and while he said nothing in response to Aramis' pointed suggestion, neither did he object to it.

Porthos was soon swaddled in a towel and blanket cocoon, cradling a mug of cocoa gratefully. He'd rather hoped after his display of concern out in the field that Athos would come and sit next to him on the couch, but Athos settled warily in a chair on the far side of the room. At least he was _in_ the room, Porthos thought. It could have been worse.

"So what did happen out there?" Aramis asked, when everyone was sitting down and sipping at their cocoa.

Porthos sighed. "I was following someone. I thought it was you," he said to Athos, a little awkwardly. "I - yeah. It wasn't though. Obviously. When I got closer, I could see they were wearing a cloak." He paused, wondering if he'd somehow imagined the horrible thing turning on him, whether it had been a hallucination caused by the fall, or a trick of the light.

"You said something came at you?" Aramis prompted, and he sighed. 

"It turned round - when I came up to it. By the stones."

"It?"

"Yeah." Porthos shifted uncomfortably. "There was nothing in it. The cloak, it was empty. Just - blackness inside. I guess I slipped, then. Hit my head. I don't really remember anything else."

"Well I don't think you've done any lasting damage," Aramis reassured him, accepting his story at face value because they'd all of them faced stranger things. "The knock wasn't too bad, but it's a good thing we found you when we did. I wouldn't have fancied your chances if you'd been lying out there all night."

Porthos shivered. "Yeah. Thanks, for coming to find me."

"Athos insisted," Aramis smiled and Porthos looked up hopefully, but Athos was still sitting with his head down, not taking any part in the conversation. 

"Come on," Aramis murmured to d'Artagnan, with a significant glance at the others. "We should go and get changed too. Don't want to catch a chill."

D'Artagnan followed him out of the room willingly enough, knowing that he was right and Athos and Porthos were best left alone to sort things out.

"Do you think they'll be okay?" he couldn't help asking, rather plaintively. 

Aramis nodded slowly. "The way Athos ran to him out there? I think so." He sighed. "As long as he doesn't let his pride get in the way of his true feelings." He looked at d'Artagnan with a flicker of hope. "Plus, there were extenuating circumstances," he said. "That wine we were drinking. It was - there was something wrong with it. We weren't ourselves. We were under the influence of something else. The house, maybe."

To his disappointment, d'Artagnan shook his head, not in disbelief but weary regret.

"The trouble with you, Aramis? You've always got an excuse."

\--

"I'm sorry Athos." Porthos had set down his mug and was staring across the room at his silent lover, still slouched in the corner, the picture of dejection. At his quiet words, Athos finally found the strength to raise his head and look at him.

Encouraged, Porthos repeated his apology. He couldn't think what else to do, or how to fix this.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. It was - strange," Porthos said slowly, trying to remember the way he'd felt with a prickle of unease. "Like I was really drunk, but I'd only had a couple of glasses." He sighed, and this time it was his turn to hang his head. "I can't explain it. And I certainly can't justify it. I can only ask you to forgive me." He looked up again. "Can you?"

Athos hesitated a sickeningly long time. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "What made you do it Porthos? There must have been something. You don't just kiss someone for no reason."

Porthos sighed. "I was angry," he admitted. "And maybe a little hurt. All you seemed to be thinking of was Jacques, and - "

"Are you saying this was because of what I said last night?" Athos interrupted incredulously. "Were you _punishing_ me?"

"No. No!" Porthos objected. "It was just - when I heard you were in the stables - "

"I was fixing the damn roof," Athos half-shouted. "So I might be in with half a chance of selling this place. D'Artagnan was helping me. I thought you might have come and lent a hand, but no, apparently you were too busy grumbling about me behind my back and forming designs on my best friend!"

Porthos stared at him in shock, and crumpled a little. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I never meant - Athos, I never meant for any of this to happen. I swear I never meant to hurt you. That wasn't what I was thinking at all. It was more like - " he broke off.

"More like what?"

Porthos shook his head. "If I tell you the truth, it's going to make everything worse," he groaned.

To his surprise, Athos finally got to his feet and came across to sit next to him.

"I promise you telling the truth won't make things worse," Athos said gently.

Porthos looked at him with defeated eyes. "It was like I'd forgotten you existed," he confessed under his breath, expecting Athos to storm out at any second. "I knew there was a reason I shouldn't be kissing him but I couldn't for the life of me remember what it was."

He watched Athos intently, hardly daring to breathe and convinced he'd made things ten times worse. Instead, to his confusion Athos reached over, picked up a bottle from the table and held it out.

"What's this?" Porthos asked, looking over the dusty, filthy bottle with distaste and not taking it from him.

"It's the bottle you were drinking from," said Athos. 

"What?" Porthos looked more closely, and made a face. "No it isn't."

"I'm afraid it is," Athos sighed. "Aramis says he got it from the cellar. But - there is no cellar in this house Porthos."

"What are you saying? That he drugged me?" Porthos asked in horror, but Athos looked startled by the suggestion.

"No. God, no. No, I don't think even Aramis would stoop that low," he said, and there was almost the shadow of a smile on his lips. "No, I think the wine was under some sort of glamour. Maybe the same thing that made you see that cloaked figure of yours."

"Mind games," Porthos said disgustedly, and Athos nodded, placing the bottle back on the table. Porthos scowled. "It doesn't matter."

"What doesn't?"

"What caused it. I've had things mucking about with my head before, I should know how to fight it by now. It shouldn't have happened, whichever way you look at it. I'm sorry Athos."

Athos' expression thawed slightly, and Porthos took hold of his hands.

"I love you Athos," he said, quietly and sincerely. "I don't want anyone but you, I never have. Forgive me?"

After a frozen second Athos gave him a rather jerky nod, and Porthos pulled him roughly into his arms. 

"I forgive you," Athos mumbled against his neck. "I love you Porthos. I love you. I'm sorry."

Porthos tilted his face up to kiss him, a hot, needy press of lips that revealed Athos was crying. Porthos kissed the tears fiercely away and reclaimed his mouth, kissing him thoroughly. 

They clung to each other, kissing hard between declarations of love until a sudden loud crack like a pistol shot made them both jump. Looking round, they discovered the wine bottle had shattered into pieces, and various crawling things were wriggling around in the mess of sticky spoiled wine dregs on the tablecloth.

"Eurgh," Porthos grimaced, looking at what he'd been drinking with revulsion. "That's horrible."

Athos looked thoughtful. "It does prove something though," he said, and slid his hand into Porthos'. "Whatever this is? We can beat it."

\--

D'Artagnan trudged up the stairs feeling sorry for himself. Unable to shake the feeling that he was being somehow unreasonable by punishing Aramis for doing exactly what he'd told him he could, having broken up with him the day before he didn't even have justifiable grounds for being angry about him kissing Porthos. Or at least, only on behalf of Athos. He hoped they'd sort things out between them. He'd known Athos for two and a half years now, and he'd never known him as happy as he'd been since he met Porthos. 

Reaching the first floor, d'Artagnan heard Aramis starting up the stairs behind him and on impulse kept going. He didn't want to talk, because he had a horrible feeling that if Aramis had the chance to work on him, his resistance would collapse like a paper boat. All this would be a damn sight easier if he could just make his feelings for Aramis stop, but with the man constantly in his presence he was fighting a losing battle. 

D'Artagnan stepped out cautiously onto the top floor and looked around. With the rain still falling outside the light filtering down the narrow hall was dull and heavy, and he shuddered. It felt suddenly like he was trespassing, although Athos had given them all free run of the house.

He walked towards the window at the far end of the passage, peering curiously into the first door he passed but finding the room beyond disappointingly empty barring a couple of skeletal beds. The corridor widened and branched before a low latticed window and he ducked to peer out of it, getting his bearings. Through the dripping condensation he saw the gravel path at the front of the house, and realised with a shiver that he was standing where Porthos had thought he'd seen a face at the glass. They'd all dismissed it upon finding the house empty, but recent events suggested he might not have been as mistaken as they first thought.

Turning right, d'Artagnan followed the passage round to a room in the eaves of the west wing. The door swung open under his touch, and he found himself surrounded by cases and packing crates. He had a brief internal argument with himself, on one hand not wanting to intrude but at the same time being incurably inquisitive. Eventually he opened a few of the nearest boxes, finding them mostly full of old clothes and curtains, but one held a stack of framed pictures and he sorted through them curiously. Most were old prints and maps but one was a faded photograph and he fished it out for a closer look.

It showed a rather stern looking family group, mother, father and two little boys of about twelve and eight. D'Artagnan peered closer in the dim light, finally recognising Athos in the features of the older boy. He looked pale and serious, as if the weight of the world was already on his shoulders. In contrast, the child that d'Artagnan assumed must be Thomas was the only one in the picture smiling, and as d'Artagnan studied the picture more closely he realised Athos' hand was protectively on his brother's shoulder.

Deciding that Athos might like to have the picture as a keepsake d'Artagnan tucked it under his arm as he left the room, venturing back through the attic to where he reasoned there must be a corresponding room on the opposite side of the house. 

Sure enough he found a door, but was immediately thwarted by finding it locked. Giving the handle a desultory rattle he sighed, and was turning away when his foot caught something that gave out a metallic ring. Looking down, d'Artagnan saw with a sense of excitement that it was a key.

It was small but ornately wrought, and turned in the lock as easily as if it had been oiled. Opening the door eagerly, d'Artagnan was rather disappointed to discover the room was empty. 

Whereas the boxroom had had a small window letting in the gloomy daylight, this room was pitch dark. The light falling in from the corridor showed d'Artagnan bare floorboards stretching away under a pitched roof, with the height of the space threaded by rafters rather than having the low ceiling of the other room.

He was about to close the door again when a glimmer of light at the far end caught his eye. He stared into the darkened room, trying to make out what it was, but it came and went, and he suddenly wondered in alarm if it was a flame. While he didn't believe that Athos would attempt to burn the place down with them all inside regardless of his state of mind, after everything d'Artagnan had experienced the year before he wasn't prepared to rule out Thomas coming back to do it himself, dead or not. 

He frowned, and stepped into the room. The darkness immediately felt thicker around him, and he made himself walk quickly down the length of the room, eyes fixed on the flickering light at the end like a beacon.

It wasn't that far, but to d'Artagnan it somehow felt like it was talking longer than it should have to cover the distance. He shook himself, concentrating on his objective, and finally reached the end wall where he found a narrow wooden table holding a mirror in a carved wooden stand. He groaned, realising that what he'd seen had merely been the reflection of the light behind him in the doorway, half-hidden by his own body.

He was about to go back when something about the reflection struck him as odd, and he leaned in for a closer look. His own shadowy face loomed up at him, eyes wide and looking more nervous than his pride was strictly comfortable with. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze to study the room behind him - and froze.

The reflection showed a room quite unlike what d'Artagnan had just passed through. There was no floor for a start, just a rickety looking run of single boards over the beams from the door to where he was standing. Cobwebs hung down from the rafters, and the open doorway looked like it was miles away. 

He swung round, praying it was just an optical illusion but the room that spread before him was now the one from the mirror. D'Artagnan realised with a sinking heart that this was the reality, and the airy, sturdily floored room he'd seen before had been the false image. He swallowed. It wasn't too bad. The door was maybe thirty feet away, and he'd managed to navigate the narrow walkway once without even knowing it.

He crouched down, reaching into the shadows below the beams to see what sort of surface was below. There was a floor of sorts, but to his searching fingers it felt like thin plaster and he suspected it was simply the ceiling of the room underneath him and would in no way bear his weight if he fell. 

A quick mental calculation suggested that below was in fact the bedroom he'd retreated to to get away from Aramis, and he winced as he remembered how high the ceiling was. If he fell through he'd probably break both his ankles, if not his neck.

D'Artagnan straightened up again, and set his shoulders. He could do this. He inched out, keeping his feet flat on the board and shuffling along slowly but surely. His balance was fine, and the narrow walkway, whilst uncomfortably bouncy, at least seemed securely set into the crossbeams.

He was in the centre of the second board when the door slammed shut, plunging him into darkness.

"Hey!" He swayed, flapping frantically for a moment to regain his balance and almost dropping the picture he still carried. "Hey, I'm in here!" he yelled, but there was no answer and d’Artagnan realised the door had closed of its own accord.

Did that mean he was alone, or not alone? And which was worse?

With shaking fingers he fished out a box of matches from his pocket, thinking that he'd never before been so glad to have picked up Aramis' smoking habit. The flare of the match showed the narrow board stretching away in front of him, and he tried to steady his breathing. The darkness was nothing to be scared of, he told himself.

No, but whatever the darkness held might be, his brain supplied helpfully, and he yelped as the match burnt down to his fingers and he had to shake it out.

Before he could strike another something ghosted across his cheek, and he yelled in alarm before realising it was probably only a cobweb.

"Only a cobweb. Only a cobweb," he repeated under his breath, inching forwards, feet feeling for the board in front of him and hands fumbling awkwardly for another match.

Something settled across his face as if he'd walked face first into a huge web and he lurched instinctively back before he could stop himself, feeling the board shift sickeningly under his weight.

\--


	5. Chapter 5

In the parlour, Porthos had emerged from the nest of blanket and towels and was dressing in dry clothes in front of the fire. Athos watched him, a little subdued but calmer with it. He'd cleared away the mess from the broken bottle, taking it right outside the house and throwing it onto an old compost heap, glass and all. 

"You alright?" Porthos sat back down beside him and rested his chin on Athos' shoulder, looking up at him beseechingly. 

Athos managed a smile, and kissed him on the nose. "I've been thinking."

"Uh oh."

Athos' smile briefly widened, then faded back into a considering frown. "No, it's okay. About this cellar Aramis found."

"Dreamt, you mean," Porthos rumbled, nuzzling closer into Athos' warmth and burying his nose inside Athos' shirt collar.

"What if he didn't imagine it?"

Porthos looked up. "I thought you said there wasn't one?"

"There isn't. That I remember."

"You do realise you're making bugger all sense?" 

Athos stood up. "I'm just wondering." Without saying what he was wondering, he walked out into the hallway and Porthos followed him, watching as Athos tapped experimentally at the panelling.

Just then Aramis came down the stairs and looked at them cautiously, relieved to find they were apparently reconciled.

"I don't suppose either of you have seen d'Artagnan have you?"

Athos shook his head. "I can't imagine why he might be avoiding you," he drawled sarcastically. Porthos came up behind him and slipped a possessive arm around Athos' chest, and Athos leaned back into him, holding Aramis' gaze challengingly.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said you'd forgiven me," he murmured.

"I have. Doesn't mean I'm not still angry about it."

"Fair enough." Aramis sighed. "What are you up to?" he asked, changing the subject. 

Athos looked back at the wall. "Whereabouts was this door of yours?"

Aramis considered, then indicated a section just to the right of where Athos was standing, and watched as he started tapping again. "What are you thinking?"

"This panelling isn't as old as it looks," Athos said. "My father had it replaced when I was little. Something about woodworm." He hesitated. "Nobody ever really explained to me what that was. I had nightmares for weeks. Kept dreaming about snakes coming out of the walls." 

Porthos suppressed the urge to take Athos into his arms and hug him tightly. The thought of Athos as a tiny frightened child made his heart ache, and he remembered all too vividly the nightmares of his own childhood. There'd been snakes in those too.

"So?" asked Aramis bluntly, considerably less sympathetic on the grounds Athos was now a grumpy bastard in his mid-thirties.

"What if there was a door, originally? What if - what if he blocked it up?" Athos suggested, turning to look at them. "He wouldn't have alcohol in the house. What if something happened to him? Something similar?"

"That's a lot of what-ifs," Porthos said dubiously, but Aramis looked more enthused now there was a chance he hadn't hallucinated the whole thing.

"You could be onto something. What do we do, fetch an axe?"

Athos shrugged. "I don't know. I can't make out any difference. Shouldn't it sound hollow if there's a gap behind it?"

All three of them started knocking and tapping industriously, absorbed in their investigations until there came the sound of an almighty splintering crash and a strangled yell from somewhere upstairs.

Aramis looked alarmed. "D'Artagnan!" 

He lead the way up the stairs at a run, following the sound of shouting to d'Artagnan's bedroom. Bursting through the door they came to an abrupt halt at the sight of a pile of plaster debris and splintered wood on the floor, and a pair of violently kicking legs hanging through a hole in the ceiling.

As they watched, the cracks spidering out from the hole suddenly widened and shattered and d'Artagnan dropped like a stone.

Aramis was already moving. He collided with d'Artagnan more than caught him, but he broke his fall and they tumbled to the ground together in a tangle of limbs with d'Artagnan sprawled on top, both winded but unharmed.

Stunned, for a second d'Artagnan could only stare into Aramis' eyes, slowly taking in the fact that he was in one piece, and the circumstances of his rescue.

"Aramis." He breathed it, not yet confident his voice would be steady enough to speak aloud, and Aramis gave him a sudden smile of delight, lifting his head to kiss d'Artagnan smartly on the lips. 

D’Artagnan flushed, rolling hurriedly off him as he realised Athos and Porthos were standing there watching them. Aramis scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off and frowning as shards of something tinkled to the floor. 

"Is that glass?" he asked, and d'Artagnan looked guilty, picking up the broken picture frame that had fallen beside them. 

"Um. I found this," he said awkwardly to Athos. "I thought you might like it."

Athos took it from him in surprise, carefully shaking the remaining splinters of glass out of the frame. Porthos leaned over his shoulder to look, and grinned.

"That's you!" 

"Yes." Athos sighed and passed it over to him, as if it was too painful to look at it for long. "My mother used to have it hanging in the parlour." He hesitated. "My father took it down when he threw me out. Made her put it away. Said there was only one son in the family now."

D'Artagnan looked stricken. It hadn't occurred to him that the picture might stir unhappy memories for Athos, and he felt awful.

Aramis saw the guilt in his face, and tried to deflect everyone's attention. 

"Is it a hobby of yours, breaking people's houses?" he asked cheerfully. "I seem to remember you broke my library floor. And now you've broken Athos' entire ceiling."

D'Artagnan went a still deeper shade of red, but Porthos was laughing and even Athos looked amused. 

"What happened up there?" Athos asked. "Did you just slip, or what?" He looked up into the blackness beyond the jagged hole in the ceiling and frowned. "What's even up there? That room's been locked for as long as I can remember."

"I found the key," d'Artagnan admitted. He related the events that had lead up to him crashing through the floor, and shuddered as he remembered the feeling of the sticky web across his face. "There's nothing on me, is there?" he asked nervously, trying to look over his own shoulder.

Aramis checked him over, brushing the plaster dust off him and resisting the urge to wind him up. "All clear," he assured him, patting him on the back. "No creepy crawlies." D'Artagnan gave him a grateful smile and Aramis cast a thoughtful look at the hole in the ceiling. 

"Wouldn't fancy sleeping in here tonight, with that up there," he said carelessly.

D'Artagnan snorted, guessing what he was hinting at. "Good thing there's another spare bedroom then, isn't it?"

Athos wanted to have a look in the room above so they all trooped upstairs, only to find that the door was firmly closed and locked again - and there was no sign of the key. D'Artagnan hunted around on the floor, but to no avail.

"It must be here somewhere," he protested, but Aramis shrugged. 

"Given that I appear to have managed to somehow walk through an entire panelled wall, I don't suppose a lock posed much of a problem to it." He frowned. "Whatever it is. Is it an it? What are we facing here, a ghost?" Aramis hesitated. "Another demon?"

"Please God, no," d'Artagnan groaned. 

Athos shook his head. "It doesn't feel the same, somehow, do you think? However much we're being mucked about with, nothing's really threatened us yet."

"I just fell through a _ceiling_ ," d'Artagnan pointed out stiffly.

"And I was knocked out," Porthos added.

"You both fell of your own accord," Athos argued. "This time last year things were trying to drown us, hang us and shoot us. Bit of a step change, don't you think?"

"So, what do you think it is?" Aramis asked. "Are you saying it's the _house_?"

"Or the stones?" suggested Porthos with an involuntary shudder.

Athos sighed, suddenly looking tired. "I don't know. I didn't say I had any answers." He turned to lead them back downstairs, then stopped so abruptly that Porthos walked into the back of him.

"What is it, what's wrong?" Porthos asked, immediately on his guard. They were standing in front of the window that overlooked the front of the house, and Athos was staring at it intently. Porthos wondered if he'd quite literally seen a ghost.

"Sorry," Athos murmured, realising he'd just alarmed everyone unnecessarily. "I just had a thought. Whatever it is, it's manifesting through glass. You saw something at this window, Aramis found an old bottle, d'Artagnan found a mirror. It's all shadows, reflections, illusions."

"Does that help us?" Porthos asked.

"It might. I need a mirror," Athos said. "Meet me in the hall downstairs." He went down as far as the first floor with them, then ducked into the bedroom he was sharing with Porthos. When he rejoined them a few minutes later, he was carrying the freestanding looking glass from the dressing table.

"This is no time to be doing your hair," Porthos smirked, and Athos gave him a reproving look.

"It's a long shot. But I just wonder - if the one upstairs showed d'Artagnan what was really there - " he held up the mirror, then to their surprise turned his back on where Aramis had indicated the door was. 

Finally figuring out what he was doing, the others crowded in next to him to look as well. Athos raised the mirror so they could see the wall behind them, and it tilted slightly on its pivot as he lifted it up. Aramis reached out and angled it back into place, and all four of them stared in disbelief at what it now reflected.

Behind them in the panelling was an open doorway, leading down into darkness.

Very cautiously, they all turned round. Athos wasn't sure if he was surprised or not to find that the doorway was now there in reality, yawning ominously in front of them. Cold, damp air drifted up from below, but other than a couple of stone steps he couldn't see any further in.

"You went _down_ there?" Porthos asked Aramis incredulously, giving voice to what they were all thinking.

Aramis shrugged. "I really wanted that drink," he said lightly. "And I did take a lamp."

"Here." Athos thrust the mirror at d'Artagnan to hold and went into the parlour, returning with the oil lamp from the table which he lit and held out into the darkness. 

"We're really going down there?" D'Artagnan asked, hoping he didn't sound as nervous as he felt.

"Why not? It's only a cellar," said Athos, trying to convince himself as much as everyone else. "Right Aramis?"

Aramis made a non-committal noise, but nodded hastily when Athos looked directly at him. "Sure. Just a bare room really. Wine rack. Not a lot else."

"Want me to go first?" Porthos offered, but Athos shook his head, stung. 

"There's nothing to be afraid of." He started carefully down the steps, lamp held high to see where he was treading.

"Can we have that in writing?" d'Artagnan muttered, but he followed Athos unhesitatingly down into the dark, still clutching the mirror.

Aramis and Porthos looked at each other and sighed. "Come on then." Porthos ducked under the lintel and followed the others, Aramis hard on his heels.

The steps ended in a room slightly bigger than the parlour, with stone walls and floor. Athos walked slowly around the perimeter looking for other exits or anything of interest, but apart from a bottle rack built into a niche the chamber was devoid of interest.

"Well that was an anti-climax," Porthos grumbled.

"I did say there was nothing much down here," Aramis pointed out, keeping well away from the remaining bottles in case something should decide to make him drink another one. Not that they looked at all appealing now he saw them for what the really were, all covered in dust and cobwebs.

"D'Artagnan, hold up the mirror," Athos suggested. "It worked upstairs. Maybe there's something we're not seeing."

Once more they all clustered round and shuffled in an awkward circle, inspecting the walls behind them. They'd turned almost all the way round when a darker patch of shadow in the wall near the stairs caught their attention.

"Is that a passage?" Porthos asked, squinting at the dim reflection.

"I think you're right," Athos murmured. "Can everyone see it?"

When the others nodded too, they all turned round together and this time no one could suppress a shiver when they saw the new dark opening in the wall.

"What's going on?" D'Artagnan asked, the anger in his voice not quite disguising the underlying fear. "Is this thing changing the walls? Or were these openings here all the time and we just didn't see them?"

"I think the former," Athos said, walking hesitantly up to the new doorway and peering through. "That panelling was solid enough upstairs. But don't ask me how." 

"Don't tell me," Porthos sighed. "We're going down there, right?"

"I think we have to."

"Who says?"

"Well you can stay here if you want," Athos told him. "But don't you want to know what's going on?"

"How do we know the answer's down there?" Porthos argued. "Whatever this is lead d'Artagnan into a dangerous attic for no reason. It could be a trap."

"Then maybe you should stay here," Athos said, realising Porthos really wasn't comfortable going into the dark and rather tight space. "Make sure nothing closes off the exit again."

Everyone cast a nervous glance up the stairs at that, but the light from the hallway was still reassuringly visible at the top.

Porthos considered. He hated confined spaces, but the thought of being left behind on his own was just as bad. And he really didn't want to be thought a coward. 

"I'm coming with you," he said gruffly. "We should stick together."

"I'm inclined to agree," Athos nodded. 

"Do I have to lug this thing all the way?" d'Artagnan asked, hefting the heavy mirror. 

"Better had," Athos told him. "We might need it to open any further passages."

"Don't suppose anyone else wants a turn carrying it?" d'Artagnan asked hopefully. Aramis and Porthos immediately found things of great interest to stare at in other directions, and Athos patted him on the shoulder with a smirk.

"I knew there'd be an upside to having students one day."

Athos lead them into the passage, holding the lamp up to light the way. D'Artagnan came close behind him carrying the mirror, then Porthos, with Aramis bringing up the rear and trying to fight the urge to constantly look over his shoulder.

As it happened there was nothing terribly threatening about the passage itself, it was just rather unpleasant. The roof was low enough that everyone had to duck their heads at least a little, and Porthos was hunched uncomfortably forwards. There was only room to walk in single file, so Aramis at the back was walking in almost-darkness, and repeatedly stumbled over the uneven floor. Eventually he hooked his fingers into the back of Porthos' belt and made better progress. 

The further they went, the damper the tunnel became, the walls running with moisture and their feet occasionally splashing through unseen puddles.

"I don't think we can be under the house any more," Athos called back eventually. "We've surely come a lot further than that?"

"Where the hell are we going?" Porthos growled. "It doesn't make sense."

Every now and then they stopped and gathered around the mirror as best they could in case there were side turnings they weren't seeing, but the plain walls of the passage were all they ever saw reflected back. 

Athos was becoming quietly concerned about the level of oil in the lamp. When they'd started out he'd never imagined they'd be coming this far, but almost twenty minutes had passed. He didn't much fancy having to feel his way back in the pitch dark, although at least with only the single route there was no risk of them getting lost down here.

He was on the brink of calling a halt and telling them all to turn back when there was a sudden feeling of space around him and he realised he'd stepped out into a wider chamber.

The others fanned out behind him, Porthos giving a grunt of relief at the discovery he could stand up straight at last. The lamp showed a roughly round corbelled stone chamber with the roof hidden in shadow, and no other visible exits.

"Dead end?" Aramis asked in surprise.

D'Artagnan lifted the mirror to double check, but as he stepped forward he stumbled and the mirror slipped out of his grasp. He made a wild grab for it, but too late and the mirror hit the stone floor face down with a subtle crunch of broken glass.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos cried exasperatedly, but d'Artagnan swung round on them indignantly. 

"Someone shoved me!"

"No they didn't," Porthos countered indignantly. "No one's anywhere near you."

"Well somebody did!" D’Artagnan glared at them all in turn, before slowly realising that Porthos was right, and nobody was within pushing distance. "Or some thing," he added uneasily.

Athos was looking round in increasing consternation. "Where's the way out?" he asked in a deceptively calm voice.

"It's a dead end," Aramis reminded him. Athos looked at him, keeping his voice steady with an effort.

"Then let me rephrase that. Where's the way we came in?"

Everyone looked round in sudden alarm, but Athos was right. The entrance to the passageway they'd come through had vanished, and the stone wall now ran uninterrupted all the way around the chamber. And without the mirror to open the way, they were trapped.

"No. No, this isn't happening," Porthos groaned, flinging himself at the wall where the entrance to the passage had been. He scrabbled desperately at the stones but all he got was grazed fingers and finally fell back again, moaning quietly. 

D'Artagnan tried to rescue pieces of the mirror, holding up sharp slivers of glass in an attempt to reflect the doorway back into being, but it didn't work and he dropped them again in disgust.

"I don't want to panic anyone," Athos said slowly, acknowledging the incredulous stares this drew with a tilt of his head. "But I'm not sure how much lamp oil we have left."

"You're fucking kidding me," Porthos accused flatly. "How long have you known it was running out?"

Athos looked guilty. "A while. I thought we'd have enough to get back, but if we're stuck here - I just think you should all be prepared."

Porthos' nerve finally broke. "This is all your fault!" he yelled at Athos, who took a shocked step back. "You made us come down here! This was all your damn idea and now look where we are!" 

There was an awkward silence, during which Porthos wrapped his arms around himself defensively and Athos just stared at him, feeling both hurt and guilty.

"I was the one who dropped the mirror," d'Artagnan said finally. "Technically it's my fault. I should have had a better grip on it."

"Could argue it's my fault for finding the cellar in the first place," Aramis put in mildly. 

"Oh well bully for all of you," Porthos spat. "Well it's not my fucking fault." He stamped across to the far side of the chamber and slumped down to sit on the floor with his back against the wall.

Athos looked at him for a long moment, debating whether to try and comfort him or get on with looking for a way to get them all out of here. With a sigh he chose the latter, examining the wall more closely where the entrance had been. 

The light coming from the lamp was unmistakeably lower now, and he turned the wick down to try and conserve the oil as long as possible, before setting it on the ground beside him.

Aramis joined him, running his hand over the blocks curiously. "What are you thinking?" he asked in a low voice.

"It's been bricked up," Athos said. "Look, you can see where the stones change, follow the line of the doorway. There _was_ an opening here, originally."

"You think we can unblock it?"

"I think it's our only chance." 

Together they pored over the wall, looking for a chink in the mortar or a loose stone that would give them a starting point. 

D'Artagnan came over to sit next to Porthos, wincing as the dampness of the ground immediately started to seep through the seat of his trousers.

"You okay?" he murmured.

Porthos looked sideways at him, and sighed. "I don't want to die down here," he admitted quietly in a voice that shook. "To die like this - trapped underground, in the dark - I can't think of a worse way to go. I'm scared to hell, and how useless is that?"

"We're not going to die," d'Artagnan said, with the invincible certainly of youth. "We'll get out. Athos'll find a way. He always does."

Porthos drew a little comfort from his utter conviction, and looked across at where Athos and Aramis were searching for a way out. They were working at the mortar around one of the stones with Aramis' pocket knife.

"You like him, don't you?" he said softly, slightly ashamed to realise that d'Artagnan's faith in Athos was more unshakeable than his own.

D'Artagnan glanced back at him, reassuring himself there was nothing accusatory in Porthos' statement.

"I don't have a family," he said quietly. "When I came to university, my father had just died, I was all alone in the world. Hardly knew which way was up. Athos - was always there for me. No matter how many times I screwed up, he always convinced me there was a way out, and he never lost faith in me." 

"I thought I was in love with him, for a while," d'Artagnan admitted after a brief pause. "But then I met Aramis and - I suppose I discovered what it felt like, to really be in love with someone."

Porthos sighed, feeling guilty for shouting at Athos after all they'd recently been through. "Isn't love supposed to mean never having to say you're sorry?" he muttered dolefully.

"No." D'Artagnan shook his head, but it was Aramis his gaze was fixed on. "Being in love means always being able to say you're sorry. Because you know you'll always be forgiven."

For a second they looked at each other, then in one decisive movement both got to their feet and strode across the chamber.

"Athos." Porthos reached out and took him by the arm, turning Athos round to face him and kissing him firmly on the mouth before he had a chance to speak.

Athos gave a muffled yelp of surprise but then relaxed into the kiss, returning it with a warm relief.

"What was that for?" he smiled against Porthos' lips when they finally broke off.

"I don't want to die fighting with you," Porthos murmured, holding him close. "I love you Athos. I'm sorry I shouted at you. None of this is your fault, I didn't mean that."

"We're not going to die," Athos told him, hugging him back. "I promise. And I love you too." They kissed each other again, soft and insistent, vaguely conscious that beside them Aramis and d'Artagnan were doing the same.

D'Artagnan had thrown himself into Aramis' arms and been received with the same warmth, kissing him with an almost desperate urgency as if to try and make up for lost time.

"I'll change," Aramis whispered, once d'Artagnan finally relinquished his mouth. "If we get out of here alive I promise I'll change, I'll stop playing the field, I'll be yours and yours only - "

"Shhh." D'Artagnan pressed his fingers gently across Aramis' lips. "Don't make me promises we both know you won't keep." He kissed him again, to take the sting out of his words. "Just know that I'll always forgive you."

Aramis wrapped his arms tightly around d'Artagnan's waist and kissed him again and again, and it was while both couples were engrossed in each other that the lamp finally guttered and went out.

This elicited a muted noise of horror from everyone, although there was no panic yet. Athos felt Porthos' breathing speed up and hugged him closer, soothing him with his hands.

The chamber was pitch dark and Athos strained to see anything. It was like being buried alive he thought, before pushing the image out of his mind with a shudder.

A scraping noise in the darkness was followed by an unexpected flare of light and d'Artagnan's face was briefly illuminated. He rattled the matchbox experimentally. "I've only got a few left. But it's better than nothing, right?" 

The match burnt down and he dropped it, but he was right, everyone now felt slightly better for knowing that in the event they needed it, they had the means of making light.

That was the really horrible thing about being stuck down here in the dark, Aramis thought, remembering how d'Artagnan had said he'd been pushed. They might not be alone.

He chose not to share this thought, patting his pockets instead before remembering with a sigh that he'd left his own matches on the table in the parlour.

"Should I light another?" d'Artagnan asked.

"No, save them," Athos told him. He lifted his face, frowning into the dark. "Hang on. Did anyone else feel that?"

"If it's Porthos I don't want to know," Aramis called over, sounding like he was grinning.

Athos snorted. "I mean, I think I can feel a draught."

There was a pause while Aramis and d'Artagnan shuffled closer to the sound of his voice, until they were all four in a huddle. 

"You're right," Porthos said eventually. "I can feel it too."

"Is it coming from the tunnel?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"No," Athos said slowly. "I think it's coming from above."

They all looked instinctively upwards, but couldn't see a thing. 

"Shall I light a match?" d'Artagnan offered.

"Yes, go on," Athos agreed. "There might be a way out."

"How come we didn't notice the draught before?" Porthos asked.

"If it leads outside, maybe the wind changed," Athos suggested. "Or we were just all too busy arguing to notice."

In the flickering light of the match, they all stared intently upwards, but it was hard to make out anything in the shadows of the roof. 

"Who's the lightest? D'Artagnan, come here," Porthos ordered. Bracing himself against the wall he made a stirrup with his hands, and boosted d'Artagnan up as high as he could. 

With the matchbox clenched between his teeth, a moment later they saw the flare of another match up in the roof, as d'Artagnan looked hurriedly for any gap between the stones.

"Yes! There's a hole," he said excitedly, reaching into it and trying to pull himself up. He almost kicked Porthos in the face before finding a foothold on his shoulder, and then just as suddenly his weight was gone as he hauled himself up into a narrow gap between the stones.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos called up after him. "You alright?"

"Yeah," came the muffled reply. "It's tight as hell though." 

Aramis opened his mouth to make an inappropriate comment, then realised that pitch dark or not he could _sense_ Athos glaring at him, and thought better of it. 

"I can feel fresh air," d'Artagnan called back down. "I think it opens out - yes, I can see stars!"

"Did he bang his head?" Porthos grinned.

"How long have we been down here?" Aramis wondered. 

"Longer than we thought, clearly," said Athos. "Come on, you next."

Between them Porthos and Athos managed to lift Aramis high enough to get his head and shoulders into the hole, and he scrambled into it with a determined strength, urged on by d'Artagnan's encouraging calls from above.

"Now you," said Porthos quietly, laying his hand on Athos' arm.

Athos hesitated. "You should go next," he protested, realising how much Porthos would hate being left by himself in the dark.

Porthos shook his head, then remembered Athos couldn't see him. "If it was tight for d'Artagnan, there's no way I'm going to be able to get through that hole," he said quietly. 

"Porthos - "

"No, I'm serious. Besides, if I go before you, there's no way you're going to be able to reach that hole on your own, is there?"

Athos was silent for a moment, realising he was right. But then, it was doubtful Porthos would be able to reach it on his own either, certainly not enough to be able to pull himself up. He wound his arms around Porthos' waist and kissed him lightly on the mouth. "I'm not leaving you."

"Get out of here while you can Athos," Porthos sighed. "Go back to the house. You can come back for me through the tunnel, with another mirror." _If it even works a second time_ , he thought anxiously. 

"I'm not leaving you alone down here in the dark," Athos said. "I'm just not. The others can come back for both of us."

Porthos hugged him fiercely, realising he was serious and experiencing a sudden dizzying gratitude. He'd been trying so hard to be brave and to take care of Athos, that the realisation Athos was just as determined to take care of him came with an overwhelming rush of love.

"Maybe we _should_ try the short-cut first," Porthos mused, flushed with a certain new confidence. "Take off your trousers," he ordered suddenly, and Athos gave a brief laugh.

"You what?"

"I'll tie 'em to mine, make a rope to pull you up after me," Porthos explained, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. "Sorry to disappoint you, but let's wait till we're somewhere more comfortable for the rest, eh?"

Athos did as he was bid, and Porthos quickly slung them round his neck. "Right. Let's see. If I get wedged up there, you need to get out the way quick if I fall back again, okay?" He put his foot into Athos' cupped hands and heaved himself up into the hole.

It was even worse than he'd expected, and far from being the straight cut chimney Porthos had pictured, the hole twisted between outcrops of rock that meant he had to contort his body and inch along like a caterpillar. 

Bruised and grazed all over, he felt the solid ground pressing in on him from all sides and almost panicked. He'd imagined at first that if he couldn't get through he could drop back into the room below, but that no longer seemed to be an option. He was stuck he realised, good and proper, couldn't go forwards, couldn't go back, and Porthos felt a scream of sheer horror rising up inside him.

\--


	6. Chapter 6

"You're nearly there. That's it, come on." Aramis' voice came from surprisingly close at hand, and Porthos scraped his ear painfully on the rock wall trying to look up.

"I can't move," Porthos wheezed, chest tight with fear. "I'm trapped."

"Try and relax," Aramis advised, and Porthos gave a laugh that was borderline hysterical.

"Relax? Are you fucking insane?"

"The more relaxed you are, the more pliant your body will be," Aramis told him in a calmly practical tone that let Porthos claw back an inch of control. "Breathe out, let yourself go limp. We can reach your hands, we'll pull you up. It won't be comfortable, but it should work."

Taking a few deep, shaking breaths, Porthos finally managed to do as Aramis instructed, lifting his arms as far up as he could, and letting his tense body go as slack as possible.

Strong hands seized his, and he felt like his arms would be wrenched out of their sockets as Aramis and d'Artagnan attempted to haul him out of the hole like a cork from a bottle.

For an agonising couple of seconds nothing happened, then Porthos pushed one last time with his toes and suddenly he was moving. Scrabbling with his feet as he was lifted from above, Porthos abruptly found himself crawling freely over damp stone with the cold night air on his face.

He slithered to the ground and lay on the cold grass, sucking in deep frantic breaths. 

"If I ask why Athos' trousers are round your neck, am I going to regret it?" Aramis peered at him in the moonlight, sounding amused.

"Athos!" Porthos sat up and to Aramis' surprise started taking his own trousers off. "Need something to pull him up with," he explained in response to Aramis' curious look.

"I'm sure I wasn't imagining anything else," Aramis smirked, and took both pairs from his still shaking hands, knotting the legs together firmly. 

"Right you, back in the hole," he told d'Artagnan, throwing him the trousers. "I'll hold your legs."

In the chamber below, Athos had listened to the groaning and cursing passage of Porthos through the hole with acute anxiety, but now it had all gone silent he felt a creeping horror steal over him. What if that hole closed off as well and trapped him down here? What if Porthos' hooded figure showed up? What if - 

Something smacked him in the face and he let out a shriek of alarm before mastering himself with a certain amount of embarrassment. Whatever it was hadn't felt very ghostly. 

"Sorry!" came d'Artagnan's voice from above. "Matches!" he added, as an explanation.

Grumbling under his breath, Athos felt around on the floor of the chamber until his fingers found the sharp corners of the matchbox that had just hit him on the cheek.

As he struck one, he saw a trouser leg come slithering down out of the darkness above to dangle over his head. Tucking the box into his shirt pocket he shook out the match and took a deep breath, reaching up to grasp the swaying material. It stretched under his weight as he pulled himself up and somewhere there was an ominous ripping sound, but with d'Artagnan hauling away above Athos managed to wedge his head and shoulders into the narrow chimney before anything vital gave way.

With slimmer hips and shoulders than Porthos, and the tied-together trousers to give him something to climb along, Athos managed to wriggle his way up and out in no time at all. 

By this point nobody was terribly surprised to discover that the passage had brought them up in the centre of the Devil's Acre stones, and soon all four of them were sitting in the field getting their breath back while Athos and Porthos pulled their trousers back on. There was a split down the seam of Athos', but he wasn't complaining.

In the light of the one remaining match they found by Athos' watch that they'd been underground for almost three hours, which came as a shock in itself.

"As long as it's just three hours, and not three hundred years," said d'Artagnan dreamily, then looked hurt when they all glared at him. "What? I'm just saying."

Aramis slapped him affectionately, then kissed him for good measure. 

"Let's get back to the house," Athos declared. "I for one could do with a strong cup of tea." He smiled. "Although if it has been three hundred years, the chances are the milk will have gone off by now."

\--

Despite the fact they knew d'Artagnan had been joking, everyone was secretly relieved to find things in the house just as they'd left them. What came as an even greater relief was the discovery that the panelling in the hallway was back to its original state, with no trace of the door to the cellar to be found.

"We'll deal with it in the morning," Athos said firmly, and nobody argued. Instead they ate a very welcome supper, particularly Athos and d'Artagnan who hadn't had any lunch, and after that everyone turned in for the night, mentally and physically exhausted from the day's trials.

Athos came back from the bathroom to find Porthos sitting on the side of their bed. He'd changed into his nightshirt but seemingly got no further, his head hanging wearily.

"You feeling alright?" Athos asked softly, sitting down next to him. He remembered Porthos had a suspected concussion, and felt guilty for dragging him through the tunnels and into their subsequent ordeal.

Porthos looked up, and managed a rueful smile. "Bit battered," he admitted.

Athos put his arm round him, and Porthos leaned in gratefully.

"Are we okay?" Porthos murmured after a while, sounding anxious. 

Athos hugged him tighter. "Of course we are," he whispered. "I was just angry, before. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me Porthos, I'm not so stupid that I'd throw that away."

Porthos turned to him and cupped Athos' cheek. "I would never hurt you on purpose, not for the world," he promised.

"I know." Athos kissed him, and smiled. "Come on. Let's get into bed. Things'll look brighter in the morning."

They climbed in together and Porthos nestled against him, his head resting on Athos' chest while Athos played affectionately with his curls.

"If I asked if we could all pack up and go home tomorrow," Porthos ventured, "what would you say?"

Athos hesitated. "I need to figure out what's going on here," he said finally. "It feels like I'm missing something. I can't just walk away."

Porthos sighed. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

"You can go, if you want?" Athos said. "I would never force you to stay. Maybe it would better. Safer. You should all go."

"No way." Porthos sat up enough to look at him. "You think for one minute I'd leave you here, especially on your own? God knows what'd happen to you."

Athos looked briefly indignant, then conceded the point with a smile. "I did survive eighteen years here," he pointed out, pulling Porthos back into his arms.

"That's true," Porthos mumbled, settling down against him and tucking an arm firmly round Athos' waist. "Did you notice all this weird stuff going on around you then?"

"No." Athos shook his head, and pressed a kiss into Porthos' hair. "Not that I remember. Although I suppose I was away at school for a lot of it. What are you saying? That things are getting more intense because we're here now? We're not special."

"Maybe after what happened last year we're more susceptible to it," Porthos said slowly. "Or maybe susceptible’s the wrong word. Sensitive? We're seeing things now that others might not, might only experience as, say, an atmosphere?"

"You could be right," Athos mused. He sighed. "Lucky old us, eh?"

Porthos snorted, and rolled over to turn down the lamp. In the darkness, he wriggled back against Athos' side, and sought out his mouth for a lingering and much-needed kiss of reconciliation and reassurance. 

They held each other close, whispering to each other between kisses and enjoying the sensations of their mutual sleepy arousal; knowing they wanted each other without the pressing need to do anything about it. 

After a while they fell asleep still holding each other, the circle of their arms for now an impenetrable shield against the world.

\--

Aramis got ready for bed with a hopeful heart and the first stirrings of anticipation. D'Artagnan was performing his ablutions in the bathroom, but prior to this had fetched his things back into their room, and made it quite clear he was staying.

Grateful, relieved, and a little chastened after the incident with the wine, Aramis was prepared to make all the apologies and promises d'Artagnan required of him, in full sincerity. How long his good intentions would last was anybody's guess, but he was genuinely glad d'Artagnan had relented. 

In the event, no words were necessary. D'Artagnan appeared in the doorway, looking both defiant and slightly unsure of himself and Aramis promptly forgot his half-prepared speech and just grinned at him idiotically. D'Artagnan was clad in a pair of striped pyjamas, his clothes folded over his arm, and Aramis came forwards and took them from him, dropping them onto a chair. He curled an arm around d'Artagnan's waist and drew him in, unresisting, for a heated kiss.

\--

Everyone was late to breakfast the next morning, feeling groggy and slow despite their relatively early night.

"If we're staying on, then we need to go shopping," Aramis announced when they'd finished their meal. "We need fresh milk, and we've eaten most of what Catherine brought us."

"As you're the one with the car, I'll accept your kind offer to volunteer," Athos told him with a slight smile. "There's a shop in the village that should have most things we'll need."

Aramis held up his hands and laughed. "Fair enough. Want to come along for the ride?"

Athos buried his nose in his teacup and shook his head, but Porthos looked up hopefully. 

"I wouldn't mind coming? Could do with a bit of fresh air." They both looked to Athos for permission, but he flapped a dismissive hand at their caution. 

"Be my guest."

Fetching his coat, Porthos followed Aramis outside, brightening already as he breathed in the crisp winter air. Aramis put the roof down on his car and they headed for the village at a leisurely pace, both glad to be out of the house and neither inclined to rush the trip. 

In the valley below a mist was hanging over the lazy curls of the river, and the pale sun lit the whole scene with a deceptively warm glow at odds with the bite in the air. Porthos pulled his collar up and wished briefly he'd remembered his scarf, but the cold wind blasting in his face was clearing his head very efficiently.

"I hadn't realised quite how oppressive that house felt until we were out," Aramis said, voicing Porthos' thoughts exactly.

"You're right." Porthos sighed. "I wish I could convince Athos to leave, but he's hell bent on staying until we get to the bottom of it."

"Can't we investigate from a hotel?" Aramis asked. "Preferably one in London," he added, but he was laughing. None of them would consider abandoning Athos for a second.

"So. You and d'Artagnan back together then?" Porthos ventured, not wanting to seem nosy but having noted they'd arrived together in the kitchen that morning, and seemed once more on intimate terms.

"I'll say." Aramis shot him a sideways glance and smirked. "There was no stopping him last night. I know they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I was starting to wonder what had got into him." He paused, "Well, other than me," he added in an undertone, and Porthos obliged him with a snort of laughter.

"I'm sure he wouldn't want you talking about him like this."

"He won't mind. Shameless little baggage." Aramis smiled happily, eyes on the road ahead, but Porthos frowned slightly. Not at Aramis' unseemly confessions of what they'd got up to, but because it struck a slight chord with the way Athos had been that first night. Desperate, but preoccupied. He kept his thoughts to himself, knowing Athos would be far less comfortable than d'Artagnan to think such things were being discussed, but it worried him quietly. How far was the house affecting them in ways they hadn't even noticed?

\--

Athos was still sitting at the kitchen table nursing the last of the tea and making notes on what would have to be done to get the house into good order to sell it. It was something he could focus on, a practical, tangible problem as opposed to what d'Artagnan had termed 'all this mystical buggering horsewallow', and there was something very reassuring about the practice of making lists.

Absorbed in his work he didn't notice d'Artagnan come back into the room until he dumped a box onto the table with a clatter that made Athos jump.

Athos looked up and glared. "What the devil are you up to?"

"I'm looking for a new frame," d'Artagnan announced. "For the photograph."

"What photograph? Oh." Athos suddenly realised he meant the one of him as a child, and frowned. "Why bother? It's not like I want the bloody thing on display."

"Got any other pictures of your family?" d'Artagnan asked. 

Athos looked away. "No," he admitted.

"Do you really hate them all so much?"

There was a hesitation, then Athos sighed. "No. I don't hate any of them," he said quietly. "I never did. Even my father. All I wanted was for them not to hate me."

D'Artagnan rested a hand on his shoulder for a second. "They didn't. You said your mother tried to stand up for you, remember? And your brother told you himself he forgave you, in his letter. I can't speak for your father, but after everything this house has put us through, can't you give at least him the benefit of the doubt?"

"Why do you care?" Athos asked bitterly, but his finger was tracing the picture d'Artagnan had set on the table in front of him, in its shattered frame.

"Because I've lost all my family too," d'Artagnan said quietly. "Pictures are all I've got left of them. And I would hate to think that one day I might forget what they looked like." He returned to the box he'd brought down and started sorting through the pictures with a clack of frames, searching for a likely fit. "Porthos understands," d'Artagnan added quietly. "He doesn't have any pictures of his family. And he wishes he did."

Athos was quiet for a while, staring at the picture. "I look so sad," he murmured eventually, and d'Artagnan nudged him. 

"You were probably just hungry. Hoping they'd stop faffing around with the camera and let you have lunch."

Athos looked up at him and broke into a surprised smile. "Am I being hideously mournful?"

"Little bit." D'Artagnan held up finger and thumb in a small measurement, and Athos laughed quietly. 

"Sorry. It's this place. So many memories, and not enough of them happy."

"That's what growing up is for," d'Artagnan told him. "Making better ones. Look, this one'll fit, don't you think?" He pulled a framed print out of the box and held it over the photograph. "Yes, perfect. Can I use this one?"

"Where did you get these?" Athos asked curiously, taking the frame from him and turning it over to see what it contained.

"The attic room. The one with a floor," d'Artagnan added with a sheepish grin. "It's the box I found the photo in in the first place."

At that point the sound of voices in the passage outside heralded the return of Aramis and Porthos, who came in a moment later triumphantly laden with groceries.

"You two still sitting around?" Aramis grinned. "Behold your brave hunters, returned from the field of battle."

"I'm not entirely sure a rural village shop counts as a field of battle," Athos retorted.

"I beg to differ. We got some right funny looks," Aramis told him. "Especially Porthos."

"Don't think they'd ever seen someone like me before," Porthos agreed equably, sitting down next to Athos and peering at the picture in front of him. "What's that, a map?"

"Yes. Shows the village and surroundings," Athos agreed, sliding it over so he could see. "D'Artagnan wanted the frame."

"Does it show this house?" Porthos asked, poring over the sepia lines and trying to get his bearings.

"Of course." Athos said, and Porthos snorted.

" _Of course,_ he says," Porthos chaffed. "Yeah, the house I grew up in is marked on a map, an' all." 

Athos went red, and Porthos slung an arm around him. "I'm teasing you idiot. Show me."

"Here." Athos pointed it out, and everybody crowded round to look.

"The stones are marked too," Aramis noted. "Look, what are we going to do about that tunnel?" He followed the presumed line of it from house to stones and back with his fingertip.

"Why do we have to do anything?" Porthos asked with a shudder. "Why not leave it well alone?"

"I thought we were stuck here until we sorted it out?" Aramis asked, and Porthos shot an embarrassed look at Athos, afraid he would take offence at the thought Porthos might have been complaining behind his back.

Athos though didn't seem to have noticed, was staring at the map with an absorbed look on his face, tracing seemingly random lines between points over the glass.

"You don't think there are more tunnels do you?" d'Artagnan asked, watching Athos' finger move between church and house, then church and stones.

"No. I think that would be too far," Athos mused. "I just wonder - " He got abruptly to his feet and left the room, clutching the framed map in one hand.

Everyone looked at each other, then shrugged and followed him. 

Athos lead them to the library, and they watched while he pulled open a number of long shallow plan drawers below one of the bookcases.

"You know, if you told us what you were looking for, we could help," Aramis murmured, but at that point Athos gave a yelp of satisfaction and pulled out what proved to be a large map of the whole county. He spread it out on the table and leaned over, squinting to see the detail because he'd left his reading glasses in the kitchen.

"Is he like this in classes?" Aramis asked d'Artagnan with a grin. "How do you ever learn anything?"

"Glad I'm reading law and not literature," Porthos smirked, taking in the sight of Athos bent over the table before him. "I'd be constantly distracted by the view."

"If you've all quite finished," Athos said dryly. "I have a theory."

Porthos moved up close behind him. "Would you like to feel what I've got?"

Athos jumped, and glared at him in flustered embarrassment. Porthos cleared his throat and stepped back hurriedly, ignoring the faint snigger from Aramis and the fact d'Artagnan clearly didn't know where to look.

"Sorry," he muttered hurriedly. He knew perfectly well that Athos was uncomfortable with being openly tactile, even in front of their friends, but for a second the little voice in his head that said it would be funny had seemed eminently sensible.

Athos took a deep breath and warily turned back to the map. "I don't know if you're familiar with the writing of Alfred Watkins?"

Porthos and d'Artagnan looked blank, but Aramis nodded. "He wrote The Old Straight Track? Spent years finding alignments in the countryside. Ancient routes between settlements, sort of thing?"

"Yes." Athos nodded. "He's been rather careful, so far, to suggest it's mostly an archaeological phenomenon. But some of the alignments - they may be the direct route between places, but they're hardly the easiest to navigate. Even the Romans had to divert their roads around some obstacles. There's a second theory, that they weren't just roads, but more - lines of some kind of force. Spiritual - magnetic - who can say. Linking places of power. Ancient sites - nodes in the landscape. Tumuli, standing stones, churches on ancient sacred sites. That kind of thing."

"Ley lines," Aramis murmured. "That's what they're calling them isn't it?"

"Exactly." Athos looked pleased that at least someone was following what he was saying.

"Isn't that all a load of rubbish though?" d'Artagnan argued. "I mean - run a line between any two points on any map and you're going to cut across any number of sites like that. And miss a load more."

Athos shrugged. "I'm not saying I know what they are, or what rules govern them. I just wanted to see what kind of sites there were in line with those stones." He leaned over the map again, and one by one the others did likewise. It seemed a preposterous and unscientific suggestion, but so did a lot of things that had already happened to them, and there proved to be a certain excitement in finding and pointing out likely sites on the map.

Athos fetched a pencil and ruler, and soon they had a network of possible lines criss-crossing the county. Two of these alignments crossed at the village church, and one ran directly through the stones of Devil's Acre.

"What does this actually prove?" Porthos asked, stepping back and scratching his head. "I thought you were going to suggest there's one of these lines running through the house, but it misses by a mile. Almost literally."

Athos looked thoughtful. "There is another theory," he ventured. "I read it in one of those old books of your uncle's, Aramis. From the - less public collection," he added, recalling how they'd found Francois' study with its shelves of occult literature behind a hidden door in the attic. 

"There's mentions of these lines of force dating back way earlier than Mr Watkins and his walking group. And if the ley lines are indeed based on some kind of magnetism, it's theorised that they can be diverted from their normal patterns. Corrupted, even. Normally you'd be talking about an entirely beneficent force, but in extreme cases it's suggested this can be turned into something altogether more unpleasant. I think the term used was a black flow."

Everyone shuddered, wondering if it was their imagination or if the day outside had suddenly become a little greyer. Maybe the sun had just gone behind a cloud.

"How would you even do that?" Porthos asked. "Some kind of major traumatic event?"

"Human sacrifice?" d'Artagnan suggested with a certain relish, and everyone glared at him uneasily.

"Or a massacre," Aramis suggested. "How old is this house, Athos? Civil war?"

Athos nodded. "About that, yes. But I don't think there are any records of a battle here. Not even a siege." He tapped the map slowly. "Although - maybe that's not the point. Maybe the event wasn't something that left a psychic scar, but a physical one."

"Are you going to talk in riddles all day?" Porthos grumbled, and Athos looked irritated. 

"I'm talking about the tunnel. Aramis is right, this house was built in a time of troubles - when every self-respecting member of the nobility might very well be in need of an escape route. Particularly if they were practising Catholics."

"Nobility?" Porthos echoed, looking confused, and Athos pressed on hurriedly.

"The stones probably already had a reputation. Local people probably avoided them. What better way to conceal your secret tunnel exit? Safely away from the house and any oppressing forces at the gate."

Aramis crowded in next to him, peering at the map. "You're suggesting the construction of the tunnel itself was enough to divert the flow?"

"Why not? It's stone lined," Athos added, "the _same stone_ , it's all locally quarried stuff."

"So instead of passing on to - " Aramis followed the pencil line further along - "to the hillfort on top of Backfold Cap, it's deflected off through the house. And back towards the church?"

"In a closed loop," finished Athos. "Stagnant. Getting thicker and staler and more loaded with the misery of the place with each year that passes. Whatever's happening in this house - I don't think we're dealing with something that's actually evil," Athos said with a sudden realisation. "I think it's more a case of - well. Pollution."

"So what do we do, disinfect it?" Aramis asked. "How? Are we talking exorcism?"

"Sounds like we should blow it up to me," Porthos said feelingly. "Fill the bloody thing in." 

"Both options sound good to me," Athos sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Despite having had a long and reasonably peaceful night's sleep, somehow he didn't feel at all rested. 

"Anyone know a priest with some dynamite then?" d'Artagnan asked, hoping to make him smile. Athos barely seemed to hear him, heading for the door with a weaving gait that almost made him look drunk.

"I'm sorry, I think I need to lie down," Athos mumbled. "Excuse me."

Porthos followed him out, burning with a jittery kind of restlessness that didn't seem to know if it was rooted in anger or arousal.

"Athos. Athos, wait." He ran up the stairs behind him, and took hold of his arm. He'd meant to stop him but Athos took his intervention for an offer of assistance, and leaned against him wearily. 

"Why am I so tired?" he protested.

Porthos, wrongfooted, found himself guiding Athos into their bedroom, and closing the door behind them.

"Are you sodding nobility?" he burst out as Athos sagged down onto the bed. 

Athos blinked up at him, frowning. "My father was a count," he said slowly. "I told you that."

Porthos frowned back at him. "So does that mean you are?"

Athos shrugged. "I was disinherited, remember? The title would have passed to Thomas. Now he's dead - I have no idea. What does it matter? It doesn't mean anything. Hasn't meant anything for generations, really. I'm not required to raise a body of armed men and march off to fight for the crown, if that's what you're worried about."

Porthos was pacing about the room, feeling prickly and unsettled. The impulse that had prompted him to make such a lewd advance to Athos in the library was still there, bubbling under the surface, and he found himself wishing they'd had sex the night before.

"Does it bother you?" Athos asked softly. Porthos turned to look at him, scrubbing his hands through his own hair distractedly. He couldn't explain what exactly _was_ bothering him, it wasn't really the title, he knew that. He loved Athos whoever he was. He _wanted_ Athos, whoever he was.

Without saying a word, Porthos strode over to the bed and pushed Athos flat on his back, straddling his knees so that Athos was trapped between his legs, and reached down to unfasten his trousers.

"Porthos?" Athos made no move to stop him, but sounded confused.

"Shift up," Porthos ordered, unbuttoning his own trousers now and slipping his braces off his shoulders. Athos watched him silently, but did as he was told, moving fully onto the bed. Porthos climbed on after him, pulling Athos' trousers and underwear down to his knees and rolling him over so he was lying on his side, facing away.

With a shaking hand Porthos reached for the bottle of oil and worked a dripping palmful up his rigid cock. He shifted closer to Athos, using the same hand to push a thick wet finger up inside him.

Athos gave a stifled noise, the first sound he'd made since Porthos had started this, but still said nothing. Unable to contain himself, after a desultory attempt at working him open Porthos shuffled closer still and thrust his aching cock into Athos' hot body with a groan of relief. 

Pressed up against his back, Porthos wound an arm around Athos' chest to keep him steady and proceeded to fuck the living daylights out of him, hips and thighs pounding a punishing rhythm that gradually soothed the ragged need burning within him. Formless anger and lust was channelled into the fluid motion of his body, and finally worked out of his system with an explosive climax which left him breathless, plastered against Athos' back and gradually, chillingly, wondering how much of what he'd just done Athos had actually wanted.

"Ath?" Porthos slipped out of him awkwardly, and pawed at his shoulder. "Athos, I'm sorry."

Athos turned over and rolled into his arms, and Porthos hugged him desperately hard. "I'm sorry," he stuttered again.

"What for?" Athos breathed, kissing him softly on the lips and stroking his cheek. "It's alright," he added, seeing Porthos' post-coital panic and wrapping his own arms around him. "Shh, it's okay."

"You didn't - did you want - ? I didn't ask. I should have - oh God." 

"I'm yours," Athos told him, kissing him again slowly. "You don't have to ask. I love you Porthos. And I'd far rather you were doing this with me than anybody else," he added pointedly, and Porthos looked startled.

"I never would," he started, then remembered how close he'd come to it. This damn house - suddenly he remembered his thoughts of the morning, how Athos and d’Artagnan seemed to have been seized by such uncharacteristic passions. He'd let his guard down, Porthos realised, being outside the influence of the house. Then he'd walked back into it unprepared and open, and it had worked on him like a drug.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled again. "Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive," Athos promised him. "Porthos, you haven't done anything wrong. Why do you think you have? Do you think I wouldn't have asked you to stop, if I hadn't wanted you to do it?" 

Porthos wouldn't meet his eyes. There was a sick feeling in his stomach that told him deep down he hadn't been a hundred percent sure Athos did want it. And he hadn't checked.

Athos sat up and sighed. "Right. That's it. We're leaving."

"What?" Porthos looked up, startled as Athos climbed off the bed and pulled up his trousers.

"Fuck this place. Fuck my family. You know what, you're right, I'm not the fucking Lord of the Manor, I don't have a responsibility here. We're going home. We should have gone home the first time you suggested it, and I'm a fool for not listening. This place is screwing us up, little by little, and I won't fucking let it any more!" 

With his tirade ending in what was almost a scream, Athos picked up a candlestick and hurled it at the mirrored door of the wardrobe, which smashed into a tinkling shower of glass.

Porthos was off the bed by now and wrapped his arms around Athos from behind, alarmed and soothing.

"Shhh. Stop it. Stop it. It's okay. Athos, this isn't you, calm down."

Athos turned in his arms, burying his face in Porthos' neck with a muffled sob of anger, and they held onto each other tightly.

Eventually Athos pulled back and kissed Porthos briskly on the mouth. 

"Go and find the others," he instructed. "Tell them it's time to go. I'm putting everybody at risk by insisting we stay here, and I hadn't realised how much."

Porthos looked dubious. "We're not leaving you here," he warned, but Athos shook his head.

"I'm coming with you."

Porthos was relieved, but suspicious. "Not like you to run away?"

Athos pulled out his suitcase and lifted it onto the bed. "Think of it more as observing from a safe distance."

"We're not going home then?" Porthos guessed gloomily.

"Catherine will put us up for a few days," Athos said confidently. "There's no hotel close enough to be convenient, when we've only got a two-seater car between four of us."

"I'll tell Aramis he needs to upgrade," Porthos grinned, and ducked out of the door.

\--


	7. Chapter 7

Downstairs he heard a murmur of voices coming from the library and guessed they were still in there. Porthos pushed the door open and strode in, only to come to a stumbling stop at the sight that met his eyes. 

D'Artagnan, his trousers round his ankles, was bent over the table being roughly fucked by Aramis, and judging by his cries of encouragement was enjoying every second of it. Intent on what they were doing neither man had noticed Porthos yet, and he could have backed quietly out again. Indeed, he was almost at the door when some spirit of devilry made him call out to them.

"If you come all over Athos' map, I'm not pretending it's a ley line."

Well pleased with the sudden muffled sounds of alarm behind him, Porthos closed the door again chuckling and turned back towards the stairs. They'd just have to pack later. He'd tell Athos they were a bit preoccupied.

Trying to erase the lurid image from his mind, it took Porthos a second to realise instead of a step up he'd just taken a step down and looked around him in confusion. To his increasing horror he realised that the way down to the cellar had reopened, and he was standing on the stone staircase that lead down into the dark.

His immediate instinct was to leap back up into the hall, but the doorway remained open and cautiously, step by step, Porthos descended into the cellar. Athos wanted answers, and he was determined to see if he could provide some. The sooner they had a solution, the sooner they could go home, after all.

With the light coming from above, now he knew what he was looking for Porthos could make out the faint line where the stonework changed, showing where the entrance to the tunnel had at some point been blocked up. Had that been Athos' father too he wondered, or some earlier generation of the family that had also been plagued by the strange humours of the house? How many people had been subject to the atmosphere here over the years?

Porthos sighed. Ironically, by throwing him out, Athos' father had probably inadvertently done him a huge favour. 

"Well blocking it up doesn't seem to have worked," he muttered. "Would filling the lot in make any difference?" If Athos was right, and it was a question of earth-energies rather than some sentient force of evil, he didn't see how exorcism was going to help either. He gave the wall a desultory kick and turned away, only to freeze as the light from above abruptly cut off.

Standing in the pitch dark, Porthos tried to stay calm. The door had swung shut, that was all, he told himself. He felt his way up the steps, tripping halfway and banging his knee painfully. Finally making it to the top, Porthos felt around, gritting his teeth as his fingers brushed through grime and cobwebs. To his relief his hand finally closed around a metal door handle and he turned it thankfully - only to discover the door wouldn't budge.

Rattling it and swearing had no effect either, and Porthos gradually came to two conclusions that made his heart sink. Firstly, the door wouldn't open because it had been nailed thoroughly shut. And secondly, as there was no rim of light around the edge of the doorframe, that meant the panelling must be back in place on the other side. 

Meaning he was trapped down here in the dark, and nobody knew where he was.

\--

By the time Athos had finished packing, Porthos still hadn't returned. He made his way downstairs, assuming Porthos had fallen into conversation with the others, but when he walked into the library it was to find d'Artagnan sprawled on his back on the table, with Aramis industriously sucking him off.

"Oh for the love of God," Athos cried, clapping a hand over his eyes. He wasn't actually as prudish as people tended to assume, but d'Artagnan was still his student, and seeing him like that made Athos rather uncomfortable.

"It's like Piccadilly bloody Circus in here," d'Artagnan called out as Athos backed away, feeling for the door.

"Have you considered using a bedroom?" Athos snapped, finally locating the door and hurriedly passing through it.

Aramis said nothing, but then, he had his mouth full.

Athos stamped off to the kitchen, from d'Artagnan's words fully expecting to find Porthos in there as traumatised as he was. The room was empty though, and he frowned. He crossed the passage to look into the parlour, but that was deserted too. He was fairly sure he hadn't heard Porthos come upstairs again. A quick search of the other ground floor rooms came up similarly empty, and peering out of the dining room window Athos could see Aramis' car just inside the front gates, and Porthos wasn't out there, either.

Wondering where the bloody hell he'd gone, Athos retraced his steps to the kitchen. The back door was locked, with the key still on the inside, so Porthos hadn't gone out that way.

He sank into a chair and sighed. He'd been all fired up and ready to organise their departure, but it seemed like nobody else was that bothered. Sod the lot of them then, he thought, his eyes lighting on the stack of groceries that Aramis and Porthos had brought back. Amongst them were two bottles of wine and a bottle of port, and Athos found himself wandering closer to examine them. 

It was nearly lunchtime, he reasoned. There'd be no harm.

He turned a bottle over in his hand, reading the label. Aramis' experience with the wine from the cellar made him wary, but this was a widely available vintage, hardly the best but probably all the shop had been able to offer.

He could see himself reflected in the glass, dim and distorted, and remembered the cathartic thrill of smashing the mirror upstairs. "Seven years bad luck," he muttered. "Makes a change from a lifetime I suppose." He went hunting for the corkscrew, then realised it would probably still be in the parlour. 

Crossing the hall, he heard a distant thumping noise, and paused to try and work out where it was coming from. A moment's reflection suggested it was probably d'Artagnan and Aramis doing hideous things to each other, and he moved hurriedly on.

\--

Realising he was trapped, Porthos banged desperately on the inside of the door until his hands were bruised, shouted until his throat was sore, but nobody came. He wondered if they could even hear him, then realised that with Athos upstairs and the others occupied in the library, there was no one _to_ hear him. All he could do was wait until he heard voices on the other side of the wall, then try again.

Porthos sank down to sit on the top step, knees drawn up in a defensive huddle. It was cold and he was only in his shirtsleeves, and he cursed his stupidity for venturing down here alone without someone to keep watch.

For the moment, Porthos was managing to keep a tight rein on his fear; he could feel his heart rate speeding up and his chest tightening with every breath, but he screwed his eyes shut tight and told himself over and over that there was nothing to be afraid of. There was maybe the odd rat down here, that was all, and rats had never bothered him.

He'd been sitting there for perhaps five minutes when the voices started. 

At first he thought it was just wind through the tunnel, then realised with two walls between him and the opening at the other end, that was unlikely. He found he was turning his head, trying to make out words. There was a whispering, hissing murmur all around him, suggestive of many voices but a great distance away.

Come, they seemed to say. Come with us. Come down into the earth. The way is prepared.

Porthos wondered then if the tunnel was open again, if he could bring himself to walk the best part of a mile in the pitch dark, and squeeze himself out through the opening at the stones once more. But this time there would be no Athos to give him a leg up, no Aramis and d'Artagnan to pull him through. What if the walls closed in on him again, left him trapped in that chamber unable to reach the hole? No one would think to look for him that far from the house. 

"No," he said aloud. "I'm not coming. I'm staying here." 

The susurration seemed to rise and fall around him, as if his words had angered the unseen speakers.

"Leave me alone!" Porthos backed closer against the door, until there was reassuringly solid wood at his back.

Something seized his ankle and he kicked out in a panic. The touch was gone as soon as it had arrived, and he was left wondering if he'd imagined it. How long had he been down here now? Hardly long enough to be cracking up, he thought faintly. Although the implication of that was almost worse, because if he wasn't imagining things, then there really was something down here in the dark with him. 

Porthos remembered the black cloaked figure that had lead him out to the stones, and tried to suppress a low moan of fear. He wasn't a man who was easily intimidated and would willingly face down any threat he could see, but there was something utterly horrifying about being trapped in the dark.

Aiming to try the door handle again even though he knew it was hopeless, Porthos reached out - and felt another hand slide into his. It was cold and skeletally thin, with sharp nails that pricked his skin.

Porthos gave a shout of horror and pulled away, unbalancing himself as he did so and falling backwards down the steps. He slammed against the wall on the way down, winding himself, and ended up on hands and knees on the dirt floor.

Coughing and wheezing, Porthos staggered to his feet.

"Right. That's it you bastards. You want a piece of me? Come and take it!" he yelled. "You like sneaking about in the dark, don't you? Creeping out of your mirrors? Well come out in the open and I'll rip your fucking heads off!"

Breathing hard, he braced himself for an attack but nothing happened. A few seconds later he realised the voices too had fallen silent, and all he could hear was his own apprehensive panting. 

"Don't like that, do ya?" he muttered, wondering if he was safe, or if there were still unseen eyes in the dark, watching him.

He shuffled cautiously forwards, feeling for the bottom step with his foot, but came up against the stone wall with a sudden smack that gave him a numb nose. He turned and walked cautiously in the other direction, but a couple of paces brought his outstretched hands to another wall.

Porthos frowned, trying to work out how he'd got so turned around that he'd ended up in a corner. Keeping one hand on the wall, he walked slowly forward, reasoning that sooner or later he would end up back at the steps. 

But one right angled turn lead immediately to another and another, and the final spine-chilling realisation that the steps had vanished and he was now boxed between stone walls barely six feet long. Like a tomb, his mind suggested helpfully, and Porthos swallowed down the urge to scream. Being in the dark had been bad enough, but now he was trapped in a tiny space as well. 

He paced the walls again, trying to tell himself that he'd missed an exit, that he was just in an alcove or something, but still couldn't find a way out. It struck him that it hadn't taken as long to walk round it this time, and that was the thought that dropped him to his knees in sheer horror. 

Not only was he buried alive, but the walls were closing in on him.

\--

By the time Athos had located the corkscrew, Aramis and d'Artagnan had emerged from the library, looking rumpled and rather sheepish.

"Sorry," said Aramis, hastily tucking his shirt in more neatly. "Shameful display. Don't know what came over me."

"A sentence that really doesn't beg a response," Athos remarked, wincing. "I don't suppose you've seen Porthos, have you?"

Aramis shook his head. "Although I have to confess I think he may have seen us. He's probably locked in the bathroom refusing to come out."

Athos sighed. "I had been going to suggest that we all leave," he said. "Or at least relocate. I don't think staying here is doing us any favours. He was supposed to be telling you to pack, but now I can't find him."

"Well he can't have gone far," d'Artagnan said. "I'm sure he'll turn up when he's hungry."

"He's not a cat," Athos protested, but the image made him smile. "I was going to have a drink," he admitted. "Will you join me?"

They agreed readily, and all trooped into the kitchen where Athos poured out three glasses, and d'Artagnan started putting together some lunch for them all.

"Let's hope this bottle is less explosive than the last one," Aramis grinned, as he took a sip. "I can put up with a lot, but messing with a man's wine cellar is just rude."

Athos was staring thoughtfully into his glass. "There seems to be two sides to all this," he said after a while. "There's the unhealthy atmosphere in general, making us subject to - unusually intense passions," he said carefully. "And I mean things like anger and jealousy and despair as well as lust. As if without the proper flow of natural energy it must feed on baser things, and is stirring them up to feast."

"Like a kind of emotional vampire?" Aramis mused. "Feeding on fear and hate and mistrust?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Hardly going to do itself any favours if it kills us off, is it?" d'Artagnan objected through a mouthful of crusty bread. "Dropping me through a ceiling and knocking Porthos out in a freezing field. Won't have anything to feed on if we die, will it?"

"And why now?" Aramis put in. "Surely if this level of insanity had been going on the whole time, your family would have noticed something amiss? Before Thomas did, I mean?"

"Maybe it wasn't," Athos said. "Maybe it's because the house has been empty for so long. It's been starving, and suddenly along we come smelling like a Sunday roast." 

D'Artagnan gave his bread and ham a dubious look and put it down again.

"I actually think the more dangerous moments have just been side effects," Athos said, absent-mindedly picking up d'Artagnan's sandwich and eating it himself. "I don't think it _has_ been trying to kill us. I think it's been trying to show us."

"Show us what?" Aramis demanded, refilling his glass. "How badly we can all behave when we put our minds to it?"

Athos shook his head. "It lured d'Artagnan into the attic and showed him how the trick with the mirror worked. It lead Porthos out to the stones to try and show him they were connected. It showed you that the cellar existed in the first place. What if it _wanted_ us to figure it out? What if part of it wants to be healed?"

"Can it think for itself?" Aramis wondered. "You thought it was just - I don't know, formless energy before."

"Maybe it's working on instinct more than to a purpose?" Athos guessed. "A thing doesn't need to be sentient to be hungry."

"Well it's not feeding off us much right now," d'Artagnan said. "Unless gluttony counts," he added, with a pointed look at the remains of his sandwich.

Athos went still, hand halfway to his mouth. "Porthos," he muttered. "He should have turned up by now. He was as keen to leave as I was." He got to his feet. "Something's wrong. He's missing, and we're just sitting here as if there was nothing the matter."

Now he'd pointed it out, the others could almost feel the atmosphere shift, as if up to now something had been deadening their concern for their absent friend.

"Where is he though?" d'Artagnan asked. "Where do we look?"

Athos was staring at the half-empty bottle of wine. "How about we start with the cellar," he said grimly.

They gathered in the hall and Athos put his ear to the panelling. "Porthos?" he called, rapping on the wood with his knuckles. "Porthos, are you in there?"

He listened intently, but shook his head in response to the enquiring looks from Aramis and d'Artagnan. "Nothing. But I don't see where else he can be, if he hasn't left the house, and he's not inside anywhere."

"We need a mirror," Aramis suggested, and Athos felt a spike of guilt at the knowledge he'd deliberately broken the one in his bedroom. What if that had been the last one in the house he wondered, in a sudden rising panic as he couldn't think of any others.

"There's a shaving mirror in the bathroom," d'Artagnan offered. "I'll fetch it."

Athos nodded gratefully, feeling silly. There were surely lots of other mirrors about. One, certainly, still in the attic space, if d'Artagnan's misadventures up there were to be believed.

D'Artagnan was back in under a minute, and the three of them clustered around the circular glass, peering at the wall behind them. Unfortunately it showed nothing but the bare wood panelling and d'Artagnan shook the mirror irritably, as if he could tune it in. 

"What's the matter with it?" he asked. "Why isn't it working?"

"Maybe it only works on its own terms," Aramis sighed.

Athos glared at the reflection, then strode off towards the kitchen. "Wait here."

"Where are you going?" Aramis called after him.

"To do things on my terms," came the terse reply.

A couple of minutes later Athos was back, and this time he was carrying the axe from the woodshed. Aramis raised his eyebrows.

"I hope you know what you're doing with that," he murmured.

"Damage," Athos growled, and taking aim at the side of a panel, swung the axe with all the force he could muster. The blade bit deeply into the wood, but as he struggled to pull it out again for a second swing, d'Artagnan gave a horrified cry.

"Look!" 

As Athos finally pulled the axe clear they all stared at the splintered hole in the wood. Red, viscous blood was dripping from the opening, and Athos thought for one hideous second that he'd hit Porthos on the other side. But there was no cry of pain, no noises from beyond, and he lifted the axe a second time.

"Athos?" Aramis called uncertainly. 

"It's trying to scare us off," Athos said obstinately. "It's what it does. It's just a defence mechanism." Despite his words, this time he aimed the axe at a panel some distance away from the first and couldn't help flinching when again the response to the bite of the axe was a spray of blood. This time he kept going, hacking away determinedly at the oak panels until he could make out the frame of a door beyond.

"This is going take hours," Aramis observed. "You need a bigger axe."

"Thank you for that insight," Athos panted. "Do you have anything that could actually be construed as helpful in your pearl of wisdom store, or was that it?"

Aramis smiled, ignoring his tetchy tone with the ease of long exposure. "No, but I do have a tyre iron in my car," he said. "I'll go and fetch it."

By the time he returned Athos had made considerable inroads into converting the panelling to matchwood, and a large hole exposed the top part of a door.

"Notice anything?" d'Artagnan asked as Aramis rejoined them. Aramis stared at the opening for a few seconds before realising what he meant.

"The blood's gone." 

"Exactly. One second it was dripping all over the floor, the next - clean as a whistle." D'Artagnan grinned. "I think Athos scared it."

"He scares me," Aramis smiled, stepping up to stand beside him. Between them they made short work of the remaining section, Athos gouging out holes for Aramis to use as purchase to lever away the panels.

Eventually they had cleared a ragged hole from top to bottom, and stared at the door beyond. Athos shivered.

"It really was there all along," he murmured. "I didn't remember."

"At least we haven't got to break down an actual wall," Aramis remarked, looking on the bright side. "If your father had chosen to brick it up we've have been stuffed."

Further investigation revealed that the door had been nailed shut, but determined application of the tyre iron soon ripped it open. As the door swung back, sagging on its hinges, Athos stepped around it and peered down into the shadowy depths of the cellar.

At the bottom of the stairs, pressed up against the wall was a miserable huddled figure, arms around his drawn up legs and face buried in his knees. He didn't look up at the sudden noise and light from above, but seemed to withdraw into a tighter ball.

"Porthos!" Athos took the steps three at a time before the others could advise him to be careful. D'Artagnan was about to follow him down when Aramis grabbed his arm.

"I think one of us should stay up here," he cautioned. "Just in case."

D'Artagnan patted him on the chest. "Jolly good, you stay up top then," he said brightly, and plunged after Athos into the darkness.

"Porthos? Porthos, it's okay." Athos crouched down next to the hunched figure and reached out tentatively. Just the light touch of his hand caused Porthos to flinch violently and make a terrified keening noise.

Athos bit his lip. "Porthos, it's me, it's Athos. You're safe. It's okay, it's over." He slid his arm around Porthos' shoulders, comforting and coaxing until gradually Porthos raised his head and blinked at Athos with disbelieving eyes.

"Athos?" he said hoarsely, and Athos gathered him into his arms, stroking and soothing him.

"It's me. I'm here. It's okay. It's over. You're safe." He could feel Porthos shaking in his arms, and held him more tightly. 

"Is there anything I can do?" d'Artagnan offered hesitantly, hovering by Athos' shoulder.

"Fetch a lamp," Athos instructed without looking round, and d'Artagnan hurried back up the steps to do as he was bid.

Porthos uncurled by inches, letting Athos hold him close. "I thought I was going to die," he confessed under his breath. 

"No. No, it wanted you scared, not dead," Athos promised him. "Are you alright? Can you stand?"

D'Artagnan returned with an oil lamp and the shadows in the cellar were pushed back for a moment.

Hanging onto Athos' arm with a death grip, Porthos managed to get to his feet. Athos withstood the pain without complaint, relieved to have found Porthos in one piece and feeling guilty that it had taken him so long to start looking. How long had it seemed to Porthos, trapped alone down here?

Still leaning heavily on Athos, Porthos managed to make his way up the steps, and was greeted warmly by Aramis at the top.

"There you are! Up you come." 

Dismissing his normal reticence where an audience was concerned, Athos folded Porthos back into his arms and held him close, kissing him softly and whispering reassurances until Porthos finally regained enough self-possession to pull back, looking slightly ashamed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm being pathetic." 

"No you're not," Aramis said immediately. "Any one of us would have been freaked out by being trapped down there."

"I thought the walls were closing in on me," Porthos explained. "I couldn't find my way back to the steps. And there was something - something down there with me. Touching me." He shuddered.

"This place is messing with our heads," Athos said quietly. "And I think we should leave, as soon as we can."

"Athos thinks it's feeding on us," d'Artagnan explained, as they ushered Porthos into the warm kitchen and poured him a much-needed glass of wine. "Fear. Anger. Betrayal. All heady stuff."

"I think it's magnifying certain emotions," Athos said thoughtfully. "Manipulating us into situations where our darkest fears and resentments come to the fore. But it's limited. There's clearly a certain physical power there, but it seems to be limited to thresholds. Mirrors, doorways, that sort of thing. And it's happily no proof against an axe," he said with a certain satisfaction.

"You tore down a whole wall to get to me," Porthos said wonderingly. Athos reached across and took his hand.

"I'd have torn down the whole house to find you if I had to." Athos sat back and sighed. "If this has proven anything to me, it's that we need to get out of here," he said. "Pack your things, we're leaving."

"Might be a bit of a squeeze in the car," Aramis remarked with a smile.

"I suggest we stick everyone's bags in, and the three of us walk. I'm only proposing we go as far as Catherine's house in the short term." He squeezed Porthos' hand. "Although the prospect of giving it all up as a bad job and letting it become somebody else's problem is becoming more attractive by the minute." 

They finished off a hasty lunch and retreated upstairs to pack their things. Eager to be going, everyone was ready in under half an hour and they met in the hallway, clattering down the stairs together. The dark entrance to the cellar gaped at them like an open wound and everyone tried to avoid looking at it, nobody wanting to admit it made him uncomfortable.

"Athos?" said d'Artagnan slowly. "I don't want to sound daft, but - where's the door?"

"Eh? Which door?" Athos looked round in confusion, then followed the line of his gaze. The wooden doors into the front porch stood open, but beyond that, the line of the wall continued smoothly, without a break.

"Oh, now what?" Porthos asked grimly, as they all moved slowly forward to inspect this unexpected development.

"It's gone," d'Artagnan said redundantly.

"Or we just can't see it." Athos ran his hands over the blank stone, closing his eyes for a second and trying to visualise the door as it should have been, still in place. Nothing changed, and he stepped back with a grunt of frustration. 

"Now what?" Aramis asked.

"Back door?" Athos suggested, and leaving their bags where they lay, they all trooped to the back of the house, just managing not to break into a run. In the kitchen the problem was the same, no door, just a blank stretch of wall that looked like it had always been there.

"This is ridiculous," d'Artagnan objected. "It can't keep us here."

"Apparently it can," Aramis sighed.

"Rubbish," Athos snapped. "We'll climb out of a window. Break one if we have to, the place is full of holes already, one more won't make a difference."

They all turned to look at the kitchen window.

"Um," ventured d'Artagnan. "Who closed the curtains?"

There was a certain amount of headshaking. Athos tried to remember if the curtains had been closed just now while they'd been eating lunch. He didn't think so, but with so much going on and the oil lamp burning brightly on the table he couldn't swear to it.

Athos strode over and grasped the curtains, only hesitating for a fraction of a second before pulling them open.

He'd been braced to see a stone wall behind them, but the reality was much worse. Beyond the glass of the window was nothing but darkness.

Athos stared into the void, trying to make out anything within it. It wasn't as if night had fallen, more as if the world outside had ceased to exist. It made him feel dizzy, but somehow he couldn’t stop staring, and couldn't shake the increasing certainty that something was out there in the darkness, looking back.

"Athos. Athos!" Porthos pulled him round by the shoulder, and Athos unfroze with a shudder.

"Christ. What in God's name is going on here?"

"We're trapped," d'Artagnan said dully. "It's not going to let us go."

"It's just trying to scare us, right?" Aramis said uncertainly. "To feed." Just managing to avoid saying 'feed off us', which sounded so much worse.

"So all we have to do is not be scared?" Porthos asked, trying not to show how unutterably terrified he was by the solid darkness outside. It was like being trapped in the cellar again, and he somehow knew with a horrible certainty that the darkness wouldn't stop at the glass, but would eventually start bleeding into the house.

"It can't do this!" Athos shouted in frustration. "I will not be made a prisoner in my own damn house!" He picked up the empty wine bottle and was clearly about to hurl it at the window when Aramis grabbed his arm.

"Athos," he said quietly. "It feeds off anger as well, remember?"

Athos stared at him for several long seconds, wild-eyed and breathing hard, until the truth of what Aramis was saying finally sank in. He let the bottle drop back to the table and sat down, very slowly. The others did the same, staring at each other helplessly across the table.

"What do we do?" d'Artagnan whispered, as if that made a difference.

"Sing?" Aramis joked, and Porthos gave a snort of derision. 

"Not actually a bad idea," Athos murmured. "We need to keep our spirits up. Try not to be afraid. I don't imagine something like this is easy to sustain, if it looks like it's not working it might stop again."

"I vote for a different kind of spirits," Porthos muttered, and leaned over behind him to grab the bottle of port.

"Technically that's fortified wine," Aramis said helpfully, and Porthos glowered at him. 

"Did I ask for your opinion?"

"Children," Athos murmured. "Be calm, remember?"

"You're a fine one to talk," Porthos retorted, sloshing port into the wine glasses. "You were all for smashing the window a second ago."

"Still might," Athos smirked, and Porthos shivered.

"Don't. Don't let it in."

D'Artagnan abruptly got to his feet and went over to the window, pulling the curtains closed again.

"Sorry," he muttered, reddening slightly as he retook his seat. "I couldn't stand it. It felt like something was watching me."

No one teased him, all of them secretly relieved.

"We should maybe check all the windows?" Aramis ventured. "Maybe we could get out somewhere else. We can't just give up and sit here."

"You really think it's just this one?" Porthos said dolefully. "We're like rats in a trap."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Athos said firmly. "It's just dark, it can't hurt us."

"It doesn't have to hurt us, it just has to contain us. And everyone's afraid of something." Aramis leaned back in his chair and gazed across at Athos. "Even you."

Athos bridled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're really telling me you're not afraid of anything?" Aramis asked neutrally. "That there's no unresolved anger, no hidden fears in there? Because as long as there are, this thing will keep feeding from it."

"Oh this is my fault now, is it?" Athos snapped, but Aramis shook his head.

"Not just you. All of us. We put on a brave face, but - I'd guess we’re all hiding something for it to work on."

Athos folded his arms. "What are you hiding then? Go on. Share with the class."

Aramis just looked at him for a while, visibly trying to restrain himself from making an angry retort. Eventually he nodded, letting the tension drain away again. "If it helps," he said. "Yes, there's things I'm afraid of." He paused again, mustering his thoughts. 

"Last year - the thing with Malphas - " Aramis gave a half-smile as both Porthos and d'Artagnan instinctively flinched at his use of the demon's name. Athos was still in glaring mode and didn't move a muscle. "Well, I think we all faced a certain number of uncomfortable truths then didn't we? Things that were said."

"Lies," Porthos said quickly. "It was a deceitful thing, made of lies. It worked on our insecurities, that was all."

Aramis shrugged with a deceptive lightness. "And yet in my case, it was nastily right on the mark. Suggesting that I would die alone and disease-raddled, and unloved. So yes, that idea frightens me, to death, if you'll pardon the expression. And it should probably have made me turn over a new leaf, but instead it made me panic more than ever."

He gave d'Artagnan an apologetic look. "I couldn't settle," Aramis explained. "I felt like every opportunity I passed up was another chance missed. And with every new lover I was pushing the only really good thing in my life further and further away, becoming the architect of my own demise. I could see it happening, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it."

Aramis smiled sadly at d'Artagnan, who reached over and took his hand. 

"Daft bastard," d'Artagnan muttered. "For the record, you're stuck with me, okay? Although if you could do your best to avoid the disease-raddled part, that would be appreciated." He glanced at the others and took a deep breath. "Me next then, I guess?"

"What have you got to be afraid of?" Porthos interrupted, and Athos frowned at him.

"Let him speak."

D'Artagnan flashed Athos a grateful look, although it was mixed with a tinge of something else. "I guess I'm afraid of failure," he said quietly, sounding a lot more uncertain than he normally did. This baring of the soul business wasn't easy. "You'd think with my father dead there'd be less pressure, but now if I fail to make anything of myself it'll be as if I've let him down one last unforgivable time. And sometimes it's all too much, and I feel like I'm going to crash and burn. And - " he faltered, looking at Athos and quickly away again. "Sometimes I feel like you're too easy on me," he admitted quickly. "Like, you make allowances for me, because we're friends. You certainly spend way more time coaching me that you do the other students. And I'm scared I'm going to let you down, too."

Athos looked surprised. "If anything, I'd have said I was harder on you than the others," he said mildly. "I've always been very careful not to attract accusations of favouritism. I do expect great things of you d'Artagnan, but only because I know you're capable of delivering them. You have the ability to do anything you want, if you only believe in yourself." He smiled suddenly. "Maybe even keep Aramis on the straight and narrow."

They laughed, not uproariously, but it was enough to lighten the mood slightly.

"All anyone can do is their best," Athos told him. "But trust me, I wouldn't invest as much time as I do in you if I didn't see something worth nurturing. You won't fail." D'Artagnan still looked worried, and Athos conceded a smile. "But if you do, I promise, nothing will change between us. As your tutor I might be compelled to shake my head despairingly at you, but I do that anyway. And our friendship is not and never has been based on your grades." 

D'Artagnan looked happier now, and Aramis patted him on the knee, then raised an eyebrow at Athos.

"Now you?" he suggested.

Athos looked immediately uncomfortable. "What about me?"

Aramis held his gaze. "You're saying you're at peace with yourself then? With your father kicking you out, there's no anger there still? No abandonment issues? No lingering anxiety about who and what you are?"

"I don't know what the hell you think you're getting at," Athos said tightly. 

"I'm saying that you've spent your whole adult life avoiding relationships Athos. And I know you're with Porthos now, and I sincerely hope that means you've accepted yourself. I just wonder how easily something like that is set aside."

Athos looked away, unable to meet Aramis' compassionate eyes any longer and desperately not wanting to see what kind of expression might be on Porthos' face.

"My father threw me out because of what I am," Athos said in a low voice. "Jacques died because of me. Directly or indirectly, it doesn't make any difference, if he'd been found with anyone but me I'm willing to bet he wouldn't have been hounded to his death. So yes, you're right, I've spent years trying to pretend I'm something I'm not. Pretend I'm normal."

"We're all the same here in that regard Athos," Aramis said quietly. 

Athos nodded slightly without looking up. "And I'm grateful for that. I always have been. You taught me I wasn't alone in what I felt, Aramis. And Porthos taught me I didn't have to _be_ alone." Athos risked a glance at d’Artagnan. "As for you, I could probably lose my position for getting you mixed up in all this, so let's not go there."

D'Artagnan smirked at that, and Aramis' hand moved higher up his thigh, out of sight under the table.

"You want me to admit I'm afraid?" Athos sighed, sounding beaten. "Fine. I'm afraid. I'm more afraid now than I've ever been, because now I've actually got something to lose." He looked at Porthos, apprehensive of what he'd see, but Porthos was keeping his own expression carefully neutral.

"You think I'd leave you?" was all he said. "Really?" 

Athos hesitated. "Then maybe above all I'm afraid of myself," he admitted quietly. "Especially after what we've found here. I grew up here, and now I can't help wondering how much it might have affected me. How it might have warped me. I'm scared of turning into my father - a man who poisoned every loving relationship around him. What if I'm like that, inside? I don't want to end up hurting anyone. To end up hurting you."

"You won't - you aren't like him Athos," Porthos protested. "You're the kindest, strongest, most amazing person I've ever met. Seriously, if this house is turning out people like you, then we should leave it the fuck alone, because frankly it's doing a great job."

Athos stared at him, gradually managing a tentative smile as he tried to accept that Porthos really meant it. 

"Congratulations Porthos," Aramis said into the silence. "You apparently win the prize for being the least messed up person in the room. A fear of the dark and enclosed spaces seems positively mainstream and sensible compared with the rest of us."

Porthos gave him a rueful smile, but his eyes were drawn to the curtain over the window. Even with it closed he could sense the echoing blackness still there behind it. Aramis was right, facing their fears, their hidden rages and petty jealousies, bringing them out into the light - it was the only way to beat the hold this thing had over them.

"It's not just the dark," he said, and it was an almost physical effort to drag the confession out of himself. "That I'm afraid of."

They all looked at him, enquiring and curious, and in Athos' case surprised and concerned.

"Go on." Again it was Aramis who spoke, gently teasing these confessions out of them all with a soft and steady voice.

Porthos bowed his head, staring at the table top rather than catch anyone's eye.

"I wonder - I wonder sometimes if I'm just fooling myself," he said quietly. "Like - who am I kidding, you know? Me, who grew up in a slum, doing a law degree. What exactly do I think I can become? Who’s going to hire a black solicitor?"

"I would," Athos said. "Maybe you should go into conveyancing," he added. "I'm going to need one hell of an agent to shift this place for me." He smiled, hoping to raise a laugh, but Porthos frowned at him.

"And apart from one more fine example of your unasked for charity, what else will I have going for me?" he demanded.

"What do you mean by that?" Athos protested, a little hurt, but suspecting he knew.

"You got me the offer to read law in the first place, remember? I wouldn't be doing this at all if it wasn't for you."

"I may have had a hand in securing it, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve the place," Athos said reasonably. "Besides, the place is riddled with young men who got their place just because dear daddy came up before them. You deserve it more than most."

"And assuming I graduate, what then?" Porthos demanded bleakly. 

"I don't see why you think you wouldn't have any clients," Aramis said. "London's got plenty of wealthy black folks who'd probably be glad to have a - " he faltered, seeing Porthos' expression. "Okay, I've clearly said something wrong, and I'm just going to apologise now because it'll save time."

Porthos shook his head in faint disgust. "When even your closest friends start making you sound like a separate species, it's probably time to concede defeat."

Aramis sighed. "I'm sorry my friend. You should know by now if I open my mouth it's only to put my foot inside. I'll shut up."

"I don't want to end up a novelty piece for people with so much money they don't care if they win or lose. I don't belong in this world that you all grew up in," Porthos muttered. "I can't forget where I came from." He looked at Athos for the first time in a while, expression both pained and defiant. "I don't fit in," he said miserably. 

"Plenty of people marry into a different life?" Athos offered.

Porthos' face crumpled in something close to anguish. "You can't _marry_ me, Athos."

"I would if I could," Athos said softly. That stopped Porthos in his tracks, and he stared at Athos disbelievingly. 

"You actually mean that," he said eventually, sounding bewildered.

"Yes." Athos smiled at him sadly. "If the world were different, I would marry you in a heartbeat."

"I thought - " Porthos broke off, and swallowed hard.

"Thought what?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Tell me," Athos coaxed. "What's wrong?"

"Since I started the course we've hardly - been together," Porthos muttered, awkwardly conscious of Aramis and d’Artagnan listening in to all of this. "I thought things would be different when we were living in the same place. Better. But - you hardly ever want to - you know. I thought maybe the reality was you were going off the idea. Now you'd seen how I didn't fit into your world."

Athos looked stricken. "Porthos, anything I've done, or not done, was to protect us. Our reputations. Both of us. I thought you understood that?"

"I know what you said," Porthos admitted. "I guess I just wondered if that was all there was to it. That if you really wanted to be with me, you'd have taken the risk."

Athos sighed. "If you wanted a risk taker you'd have been better off with Aramis," he said, which drew a snort of laughter from the other side of the table.

"Don't go there again," Aramis murmured.

"Porthos, I'm not going to insult you by pretending that my childhood was as bad as yours," said Athos. "But it wasn't great. We make what we can of our lives. Until this stupid bequest, everything I currently had in my life I'd earned myself. Yes, my father paid for my university fees, as Aramis is paying for yours. After that I started from scratch. I never dreamed or expected to land up with this house. I'm not going to say where you come from doesn't matter, because it does, it _should_. You don't have to pretend to be someone you're not Porthos, you don't have to 'fit in', all you have to do is make the world fit around you."

Athos sat back. "Look, here's an idea. Assuming - well, assuming we all get out of here alive first, but assuming I manage to sell this place, that would be more than enough money to set you up in a practice somewhere. You don't have to work for the rich and feckless if you don’t want to, you could offer your services to those that need them, people who deserve a chance but can't afford it. How does that grab you?"

He looked over at Porthos hopefully, but Porthos' expression had closed down again.

"Am I to live entirely on charity then?" Porthos said tersely. "Go through life owing Aramis for these years and you for the years after? You have no idea how degrading that feels, do you?"

Athos gave an exasperated sigh. "Porthos, I love you. I want to help you. I didn't ask for this inheritance, and I'm just trying to do some good with it. But if your pride is so fierce and so damned stubborn that you won't let me, then I don't know what else to say. That's one wall between us I can't tear down."

They stared at each other miserably, while Aramis and d'Artagnan barely dared breathe. Athos reached out to take Porthos' hand, but he pulled it back out of reach, and Athos looked like he was on the verge of frustrated tears.

"What do you want from me Porthos? Do you want me to give up my job? Give up this house? Do you want to give up your degree? Do you want us to go and live in a fog-ridden suburb somewhere and scratch a living somehow, will that make you happy? Because if it will, I'll do it. I'll do anything you want. Just tell me what that is. _Please._ "

There were tears in his eyes now, and the room was utterly silent for a long moment while Porthos seemed to consider his future. Then, finally, he relaxed a fraction and gave Athos a sideways look that was more than a little embarrassed.

"Am I being an arse?"

Athos almost sagged with relief. "Right now, I'm too afraid to say yes," he said, and Porthos winced. 

"Sorry." He held out his hand, and waggled his fingers until Athos slid his own hand into Porthos' welcoming grip. "Sorry," he whispered again, and suddenly they were smiling at each other through a blur of tears, with no other words necessary. Porthos closed his other hand around Athos', and Athos did the same until they were clasping each other tightly. The physical contact seemed to help, and they both immediately felt stronger.

"How much of this rubbish can I get away with blaming on the house?" Porthos asked sheepishly after a while. Athos smiled at him.

"I told you we could beat it," he said.

Across the table Aramis and d'Artagnan exchanged a relieved smile, and took hold of each other's hands too.

"Well this place really hit the jackpot with us four, didn't it?" d'Artagnan declared, blowing out a loud sigh. "There's enough neuroses around this table to feed it for decades."

"Not any more," said Athos, quietly determined. "Not any more."

Porthos was still holding his hand, and after a moment held his other hand out to Aramis. After a second Aramis took it, looking quizzical.

"Aramis, will you say a prayer for us?" Porthos asked. "No, not for us. For this place."

"I can," conceded Aramis with a tilt of his head. "But I'm a mostly-lapsed Catholic and failed theology student, not an exorcist."

"I'm not talking exorcism," said Porthos. "More of - a blessing. Bless this house and those that have passed on, can you? Thomas. Jacques. And Athos' father, maybe."

"Why does he get one?" Athos grumbled, and Porthos turned to him.

"Remember the part about 'forgive those who trespass against us'?" he quoted, and Athos sighed.

"You're right. I'm sorry. That is one long-cherished resentment I do need to let go of." He squeezed Porthos' hand, then held out his other to d'Artagnan on the other side of him, who took it without question.

Half prayer-circle, half-séance, Aramis lead them in a murmured but heartfelt plea for the release of any spirits that might be trapped here like flies in amber, and for the return of the house and the land to a state of grace. He prayed for those lost from the families of all those present, and despite Porthos' suggestion it shouldn't be about them, he prayed for protection and forgiveness for the four of them.

Sitting hand in hand, they felt a strength and an inner light gradually suffuse them until all imagined shadows were swept away. Whether it was the lifting of a curse, the power of prayer, or of the land, or simply of four firm friends and their absolute trust in each other no one could say, but when they opened their eyes again the darkness had gone and the sun was once more shining in the window, golden shafts falling between the gap in the curtains.

"Is it over?" Porthos asked tentatively.

"I - think so?" Aramis hazarded.

Athos gave a sudden smile. "Well. That was easy."

It was at that point every window in the place blew in.

\--


	8. Chapter 8

Everybody ducked, from instinct more than any actual danger from flying glass, but after the first initial explosion everything fell quiet again. The glass shade of the oil lamp had broken too, and d'Artagnan reached out to extinguish the guttering flame.

They got to their feet cautiously, and examined the damage. The kitchen window had been reduced to splinters that crunched underfoot, but on the plus side the kitchen door had reappeared and without conferring they all hurriedly spilled out into the garden.

Behind them the house sat there innocently in the winter sunshine and the four of them eyed each other with a certain amount of embarrassment at their instinctive flight.

"All the windows have gone," Athos murmured, shading his eyes with his hand and looking up the side of the house. The others followed his gaze, and saw he was right. Every window was broken, some frames completely empty, others still housing jagged pieces of glass.

"Well that's one way of making sure we need to sleep somewhere else tonight," Aramis said pointedly, and Athos raised his hands in surrender with a slight laugh. 

"I already promised we could leave."

"Do we fetch our things?" Porthos wondered, looking up at the house with deep misgivings.

"I am not setting foot in there again," Aramis said flatly. "I'll buy new."

Athos took a step towards the doorway, and Porthos grabbed his arm.

"It's safe," Athos protested. "I think." He drew his arm gently out of Porthos' grip and walked back inside. 

Porthos gave a deep rumble of discontent, but moved immediately to follow him.

"I'll keep an eye on things from out here," Aramis called after them brightly. "Tell you what, I'll go and fire up the car." He hesitated. "Just scream if you need me."

D'Artagnan, torn between not wanting to go back into the house and not wanting to be seen to abandon his friends, finally sighed and ran in after them.

"Oh for the love of - " Aramis raised his eyes skywards and shook his head. "They need committing, the lot of them." Warily, he too walked back into the house.

Inside, all was quiet. Between them they examined a number of the rooms and determined that every window in the place was broken. Almost every piece of glass in fact, as d'Artagnan noted that the mirror they'd first attempted to rescue Porthos with had also shattered.

Despite everyone's vocal attempts to dissuade him, Athos even ventured down into the cellar, returning quickly and reporting that the tunnel remained bricked up, but that all the old bottles of wine had cracked open. The floor had been awash with a slick of sticky red liquid that made him shudder, and retreat hastily back up the steps.

They collected their bags and exited through the front door, relieved to find that this too was back in place and pretending it had never left.

Athos locked the door behind them, despite feeling it was a rather redundant act with all the windows broken.

"You'll need to get the place boarded up," Aramis said practically, as they stacked all their bags in his car. "The weather will get in otherwise. Or squatters."

"Good luck to anyone who breaks in there," Porthos muttered. "Most people just have a guard dog. We seem to have a curse."

"It's over though," d'Artagnan protested uncertainly. "Isn't it?"

"For us it is," Athos nodded firmly. "I sincerely hope that we've beaten it, but none of you are going back in there after today."

"None of _us_ ," Porthos amended, taking his hand.

"I may have to," Athos admitted. "I need to sell the place, after all. I certainly don't want to keep it."

"Do you think it's safe now?" Aramis mused. "To pass on, I mean?"

"I've got some thoughts about that," Athos said. "But for now let's just get the hell out of here. Aramis, why don't you drive ahead with the things, perhaps go via the station and find out when the next train back is. If that's not until tomorrow, we'll need to see if Catherine can put us up for the night. We'll follow on foot, meet you outside the post office."

"Right-ho." Aramis gave them a cheerful salute and drove off, while the others started walking slowly towards the village after him.

They'd been walking for about a quarter of an hour, Athos and Porthos still hand in hand while they were where no one could see them, when they heard the sound of an approaching car engine.

"Aramis?" D'Artagnan wondered. 

Porthos shook his head. "Sounds larger." He felt Athos' hand slip out of his grasp, and sighed inwardly. He knew they couldn't risk being exposed, but sometimes it all felt so unfair. They weren't hurting anyone by doing what they were doing. 

He reflected on what Aramis had said earlier, something that he'd sort of known but never really thought about what it meant, that Athos had never been in a relationship with a man before him. Porthos knew he'd slept with Aramis when they were both students, and that since then Athos had had one disastrous one-night stand with a visiting lecturer, and that had been it. Until now Athos had never been in a long-term relationship, never been in love. Porthos hadn't exactly had a tumultuous love life himself, but he'd never tried to deny who he was. 

He'd complained about Athos' aversion to risk-taking in terms of their relationship, but Porthos suddenly realised just how much guts it must be taking for Athos to be with him at all.

Porthos looked over at him and saw that Athos' face was tight and nervous, watching Porthos anxiously as if afraid he was going to be angry Athos had pulled away, or make a grab to take his hand back even though someone was coming. Porthos just gave him a reassuring smile, and saw him relax fractionally. 

How had he never noticed, Porthos wondered, just how scared Athos was by what they were doing. How he must have been feeling constantly trapped between fear of exposure and the fear that Porthos would get fed up with him if he didn't give in to what he wanted. Porthos suddenly wished they were alone, wished he could take Athos into his arms and apologise for all the times he'd complained about not getting to spend time with him, or not getting to sleep with him as often as he wanted. 

The car they'd heard heaving itself up the hill from the village finally came around the corner ahead of them, and they saw with some surprise it was the one from the station, with Serge at the wheel. He waved at them enthusiastically, then spent almost ten minutes turning the large vehicle around in a field gate until it was pointing back towards the village.

"Ran into your friend outside the station," he told them cheerfully. "He asked me to come and give you all a lift down."

Despite the fact that if they'd kept walking they'd have been nearly at the village by now, they all climbed in with hearty words of thanks and settled back to enjoy the rest of the trip in relative comfort.

As they reached the first houses, Athos leaned forwards to peer down the street in consternation. "What happened here?"

There were groups of people in the road sweeping up debris, and several windows looked to be broken.

"Earthquake, so they're saying," Serge reported with a certain amount of pride. "Di'n't think we got them over here, but just goes to show."

Exactly what it went to show he didn't explain, but nobody in the car felt like offering up a theory.

"Took out half the stained glass in the church too," Serge added as they drove past. Athos cleared his throat and slunk a little lower in his seat. Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged a glance, and grinned.

Aramis was parked outside the Post Office, and Athos got Serge to pull up alongside and leaned out the window to talk to him.

"Next train's not until tomorrow at midday," Aramis reported. "Unless you want to go north and change about six times, and frankly that'd take about as long."

Athos shook his head. "Tomorrow's good enough." He hesitated. "You don't have to stay, if you'd rather not?" He glanced back inside the car at d'Artagnan. "The two of you in fact, could start back if you preferred?"

They both declined his offer, and Athos shrugged, secretly pleased they were both apparently determined to stick by him. 

"Serge, would you take us up to Catherine's place please?" Athos asked. "Looks like we'll be in town for at least one more night."

\--

Catherine's house at the top of the main street had thankfully missed the trail of devastation that marked the path of whatever build-up of energy they'd inadvertently released. As he rang the bell, Athos hoped this meant the house was positioned away from the ley line and its dubious influences.

Behind him, Porthos pursed his lips but said nothing. Athos had managed to give the impression that Catherine's family was a little down on its luck, but this fine double-fronted townhouse was hardly his idea of abject poverty.

Catherine opened the door herself, which at least dispelled the notion that she was in possession of a full staff. Her expression was one of slight defiance, as if to say not having a butler was entirely her own choice, but upon seeing Athos it changed into one of surprise.

"Hello! Is everything alright?"

Athos gave her a disarming smile of apology. "I'm afraid we have fallen victim to the same fate as half the town, and lost all the windows at the Hall. I wondered if you might be able to see your way to putting us up for the night? We leave tomorrow, but until then we are rather homeless."

Flustered, Catherine nevertheless nodded immediately. "Yes, yes, of course, come in." She looked over her shoulder where an older woman in a plainer dress was waiting, regarding the influx of visitors with faint horror.

"Sarah, can you make up the guest rooms at once please?" Catherine asked. "And dinner, will need to be for five now."

The housekeeper nodded, looking like she was doing frantic mental calculations in her head and coming up short, until Aramis stepped forward holding out a large bag.

"I wonder if you might find a use for this, it's just a few things that we didn't want to leave behind and see go to waste? Not much, just a chicken, a few bottles of wine, a few vegetables. Seemed a shame to abandon them."

Sarah took them with a look of abject relief, and bobbed a curtsey in response to Aramis' broad smile before disappearing towards the kitchen. Catherine showed them into a cosy drawing room and withdrew hurriedly to see about airing their rooms.

Athos gave Aramis a curious look. They hadn't had anything like that amount of food left, and certainly hadn't wasted time packing anything up as they departed.

"I had a thought, while I was hanging about waiting for you lot to show up," Aramis explained in a low voice. "That four hungry men turning up unexpectedly and wanting to be fed might leave her in a bit of a bind. So I went shopping."

Athos patted him on the arm, with a smile of genuine appreciation. "Thank you," he murmured. "I hadn't given it a thought."

"There speaks a man with a entire refectory staff at his disposal," Aramis teased, throwing himself into an armchair with a sigh of relief. "I must say this is comfortable. Why couldn't we have stayed here instead?"

\--

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed in good cheer with everyone relieved to be away from the house and finally able to relax. Lying in bed that night Porthos tried not to mind that they were all in separate rooms, telling himself that he would be back with Athos soon enough. He wasn't about to make a fuss, assuming Athos wouldn't want to risk discovery here of all places, and so it came as something of a surprise when his door creaked open about an hour after everyone had retired.

"Who's there?" Porthos whispered, as the door clicked shut again.

"It's only me," came Athos' quiet murmur, and Porthos sat up a little as Athos came over to the bed.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes, perfectly." Athos lifted the covers and slipped in next to him, wriggling down to get comfortable. "I was just cold," he smiled. "And maybe a little lonely?"

Porthos wrapped his arms around him and kissed him hello with a pleased and surprised smile. "I didn't think you'd want to risk getting caught out," he said in a low voice, then winced. He'd meant to explain why he hadn't come in search of Athos himself, but it had sounded more like he was having a go. To his relief, Athos didn't seem to mind.

"Well if Catherine takes it into her head to sneak into my room in the middle of the night, on the whole I'd rather not be there when it happens," Athos teased. "Just remind me to get back before everyone starts waking up."

They lay down together, Porthos pleased and touched that Athos had taken such a chance without prompting.

"Be glad to get home tomorrow," Porthos yawned. "We are going, right?"

Athos nodded. "Although only for a night." He smiled at Porthos' look of immediate suspicion. "Aramis has invited us to join him and d'Artagnan in London for Christmas."

Porthos relaxed again. "That's nice of him."

"You don't mind?" Athos nestled into his arms. "We don't have to go if you'd rather not."

"No, it's a great idea," Porthos said, thinking privately that it was, Athos was far more likely to be relaxed away from the university. 

They snuggled closer into each other's arms and kissed quietly, glad to simply be together. 

"I love you," Athos breathed, his lips brushing Porthos' as he spoke.

"I love you too." Porthos smiled against Athos' mouth, turning the words into another kiss.

There was a pause, then - 

"I'm sorry for - "

"I'm sorry if - "

They both spoke together, then broke off at the same point, and laughed sheepishly. 

"Sorry," Porthos sighed, but Athos laid his fingers softly against his lips.

"Maybe we shouldn't drag everything up again," he said quietly. "We're together. We want to be together. That's enough."

Porthos wound his arms more securely around Athos' waist and nodded his agreement, any further words lost in the stream of heartfelt kisses that followed.

\--

Porthos woke with a start from nebulous dreams of dark cellars and cold clutching hands. He lay there for a second, heart pounding and disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings until he remembered where he was.

The sun was well up outside the curtains, and he had a second moment of alarm until it filtered through to his sleep-fogged brain that he was alone in the bed. Athos had clearly made his escape before the household awoke.

Yawning, Porthos got dressed and on the way back from the bathroom knocked lightly on the door to Athos' room. There was no answer, and a quick look inside revealed the room to be empty. 

Going down to breakfast, Porthos found Aramis, d'Artagnan and Catherine already seated at the table.

"Anyone seen Athos?" he asked, having first apologised for his tardiness.

"Oh, he was up and out early," Catherine replied, pouring him a cup of tea. "Said he wanted Serge to drive him somewhere."

Porthos put down the piece of toast he'd just picked up and looked immediately unhappy, guessing where Athos must have gone. 

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Aramis murmured. "Have a little faith."

"Is something wrong?" Catherine asked, looking at Porthos' almost angry expression with concern.

"It's not safe!" Porthos blurted.

"The - ah - earth tremor," d'Artagnan explained hurriedly. "It left a lot of the window glass rather loose, and we think the house may not be entirely structurally sound."

"Oh, I see. Well, it's always been a sturdy old place, I'm sure it won't have taken too much damage," Catherine assured them.

"You must have spent quite a bit of time there, growing up?" Aramis prompted with interest. "What was it like?"

Catherine considered. "Cold," she said finally. "Always a cold sort of place. Even in summer. But yes, I played there quite a lot as a girl. Until we were too old for such things to be entirely seemly anymore," she added with a faint smile. "I came home one day with my skirts ripped, and after that my mother decided I should be chaperoned at all times."

"What happened?" Aramis enquired, feeling confident it had been due to no untoward behaviour on Athos' part.

"I was racing Olivier to the top of an apple tree," Catherine admitted with a smile. "Athos," she corrected herself a moment later with a delicate frown. "I must remember that." 

She sighed, tracing a pattern on the tablecloth with her finger. "I thought he'd changed, such a lot. But I think I was wrong. It's me who's changed. Or stagnated." There was an awkward pause, as no one was entirely certain if she was talking to them or just to herself, then Catherine looked up interrogatively.

"Is he really engaged?" 

Aramis and d'Artagnan exchanged an uncomfortable look, not quite sure how to answer without either lying or causing a problem for Athos, but Porthos gave a brief nod. "Yes." 

He held Catherine's gaze calmly, figuring that Athos had said he'd have married him if he could, so that had to count as close as anything.

After a moment she nodded. "And - do they truly love each other?"

"Yes." Porthos' answer was quiet but firm. "Very much."

Catherine sighed, but also relaxed a little. "Then, I will be happy for him." 

To everyone's relief talk turned to other topics, and after half an hour had passed the door opened and Athos walked in, smiling.

"Morning all."

"Where the hell have you been? As if I couldn't guess," Porthos muttered.

Athos raised an eyebrow and gave a slight bow in Catherine's direction. "I must apologise for my friend's language, he's generally not inflicted on an unsuspecting public until he's had at least a pot of tea and two breakfasts." 

Porthos flushed with embarrassment, but Catherine waved away Athos' apology with a laugh. 

"Talking of breakfast, have you guzzlers left me anything?" Athos asked, inspecting the serving dishes without much hope.

"I'm sure there's a sausage with your name on it somewhere," Aramis murmured, making d'Artagnan choke on his tea and earning himself a filthy look from Porthos.

"I'll get Sarah to make you a fresh plateful, that'll all be cold by now," Catherine offered, getting to her feet.

"Before you go," Athos said, "Porthos is right, I have been up to the house, but I've also been to the bank. The solicitors had informed me that there was a strongbox of my brother's awaiting my attention, and this was the first chance I'd had to have a look. It held papers mostly, property deeds and so on, but there was also this. It was my mother's. I thought you might like to have it?" 

Athos drew a jewel case out of his pocket and offered it to Catherine, who looked faintly stunned as she opened it to reveal a glittering ruby necklace. 

"As, uh - one childhood friend to another," Athos murmured hastily, in case she got the wrong idea.

"It's beautiful," Catherine murmured, before looking back up at Athos with wide eyes. "But - shouldn't this go to your fiancée?"

Athos blinked at her, caught out for a frozen second and completely unable to think of a suitable reply. Aramis came to his rescue, clapping Athos on the shoulder and grinning at Catherine. 

"She prefers emeralds," he explained breezily.

Athos gave a breathy laugh, and ducked his head. "I would like you to have it," he assured Catherine. "And please, feel free to do with it as you wish."

Catherine drew it out of the case and fastened it around her neck in front of the mirror by the door, admiring her reflection. "I shall never part with it," she declared, and gave Athos a delighted smile. "And now, I shall see about your breakfast."

She left the room and Athos sank onto a chair with a sigh. 

"You imagined she'd sell it," Aramis guessed.

"She could do with the money," Athos said. "Although she would never admit as much."

"She could always sell this place," Porthos muttered, still in a bad temper at the thought Athos had returned to the hall on his own.

"And then what?" Athos asked without rancour. "This house is her only real asset. And appearances mean a lot to her, whether you agree with that or not."

"Who rattled your cage, anyway?" d'Artagnan asked Porthos cheerfully. "You were happy enough with her hospitality last night."

Porthos grunted but said nothing. Athos patted him on the shoulder, guessing the source of his concern.

"You think I shouldn't have gone back without you," he hazarded.

"It's not safe on your own!" Porthos protested.

"I wasn't on my own. I took Serge with me. I figured he's enough of a force of nature already, that any untoward influences would bounce straight off him again." Athos poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea with a shameless grin. "Anyway, I needed to show him what needed doing."

"What does need doing?" Aramis asked. "I assume you haven't asked him to torch the place?"

Athos looked amused. "No. But the windows need boarding up and then repairing, and there are a couple of recent holes that need seeing to. And the gardens need bringing under control, if I'm going to sell the place." 

"You couldn't have instructed that from a distance?" Porthos muttered, unwilling to let the matter drop.

"I wanted to pick up a few things," Athos said. "Including this." He drew a picture out of the bag he'd carried in, which turned out to be the photograph of his family, rehoused in a new frame and glass. "You were right," he said quietly to d'Artagnan. "Thank you."

D'Artagnan nodded. "How was it up there?" he asked. "All quiet?"

"Yes. Although to be honest I didn't spend much time in the house itself," Athos confessed. "Just - you know. In case."

Porthos snorted, but looked slightly mollified to discover that Athos had at least been taking some sort of precautions.

"Mostly we were outside," Athos continued. "If I'm to sell it, the place needs updating. I've commissioned a new ornamental pond to be dug," he said with a lopsided smile. "A reflecting pool I think they call it. Long, narrow, surrounded by ornamental planting, that sort of thing."

"You're going to flood the tunnel," Aramis guessed. Athos nodded.

"Have a large section of it dug out, anyway. I'm having the stone removed. I thought I'd have a chapel of ease built with it. It'll be an extra selling point for the manor house."

"You can afford to have a chapel built, can you, on a lecturer's wages?" Porthos asked acidly.

"That's another reason I went to the bank," Athos said, remaining determinedly unruffled. "They've advanced the money against the sale of the house."

"Will it make any difference?" Aramis asked. "I mean - regardless of the form it takes, if you just reuse the stone, won't it keep the flow trapped on the same lines?"

Athos shook his head and broke into a smile. "That's the other part of my plan." He pulled a rolled up drawing out of his pocket that proved to be the map he'd swapped out of the photograph frame. "I'm not having it built on the same alignment. It's going in this field up here." He pointed to a space on the map away from the house. 

Aramis leaned in and traced a line across the paper. "Directly between the stones at Devil's Acre and the hillfort at Backfold Cap!"

"Exactly." Athos leaned back in his seat to let the other two examine the map. "Back on its original alignment, with any luck. As an insurance policy, I've asked Father Duval to have it consecrated. He was more than happy to oblige once I offered to replace all his broken stained glass."

"Sounds like you won't have a lot left after the house sale, with all those expenses," d'Artagnan said.

"Not much," Athos said cheerfully. "Also, I intend to give some to Catherine," he said in a lower voice. "Made out as a bequest from Thomas. It should be enough to let her leave here, if that's what she wants."

"Why pretend it's from Thomas?" Aramis asked in surprise. "Why not just give it to her directly?"

"I've learnt pride can be a very awkwardly shaped thing," Athos said, carefully not looking at Porthos. "I don't believe she would accept an offer of cash from me. It would look too much like pity. But as a token of poor dead Thomas' esteem - well there'd be no reason for her to refuse that."

"It's very nice of you," Aramis smiled. "Isn't it Porthos?"

Porthos glowered a little, but said nothing. He was quiet throughout the rest of breakfast, and subdued as they packed their things and said their goodbyes to Catherine, but perked up enough to say a more hearty farewell to Aramis and d'Artagnan at the station. Aramis was driving them both directly to his flat in London, while Athos and Porthos would follow on by train to join them a couple of days later.

When they'd waved the car off down the hill and taken a seat in the station waiting room, Athos slipped his arm through Porthos' and rested his head against his shoulder. They had the small room to themselves, there was a merry fire blazing in the grate and Christmas decorations were arrayed along the mantelpiece, so it was quite cosy.

"Are you angry with me?" he murmured.

Porthos heaved a sigh, and sought out Athos' hand, clasping it firmly in both his own. "Don't be daft," he said gruffly.

"So what is the matter?" Athos coaxed gently.

"Are you giving away all the money you'll get from the house because of me?" Porthos blurted out suddenly.

Athos sat up, and shook his head. "I'm just doing what needs to be done," he said softly. "I don't want to leave a potential time bomb for the new owners. Besides, there should still be a considerable sum left over. Enough for a comfortable nest-egg." Athos looked sideways at him. "Of course, if that offends your sensibilities, I could just give it all away to the cats' home?"

Porthos frowned at him so hard that Athos actually laughed. "If the wind changes, you'll be stuck like that," he warned. "And round here you never know when a threat like that might actually mean something."

Despite himself, Porthos broke into a reluctant smile, and Athos squeezed his hand. 

"Come on," he said. "The train's coming, and so's Christmas. And I think I somehow owe you an emerald necklace." 

Porthos got to his feet, but instead of leaving the waiting room, pulled Athos into his arms.

"I've already got all I want for Christmas," he said, kissing Athos first on the cold tip of his nose, and then on his warm mouth. "I, er, may have told Catherine you were engaged," Porthos confessed, as the train hissed into the station outside the door.

Athos smiled at him. "As far as I'm concerned, I am," he said. "Do you think if I bought Father Duval new hassocks as well, that he'd marry us?"

The last vestiges of Porthos' bad mood melted away and he burst out laughing. "Hassocks? Never mind praying. Get out and on that train, man. The sooner we're home the sooner I can give you a real reason to get on your knees."

"Sacrilege," Athos laughed, gathering up his bags. "But I like your thinking."

They walked out together into the steam and sunshine, arm in arm.

\--


End file.
